Robin Hood: The Road to Redemption
by Sarah Cartwright
Summary: Robin has vowed to avenge Marian's death. Guy wants for revenge for what he's lost. Who can save them now?
1. Prologue

Prologue

"_I would rather die than be with you, Guy of Gisborne. I love Robin Hood. I love Robin Hood…"_

Guy awoke with a desperate gasp for air, as though he had been immersed in deep, black water. In many ways, he had been. Though the night was warm, a cold sweat dripped over his bare skin. He could taste it on his lips and feel it on his temples. It was real, this was real: Marian was gone.

He lay in his bed panting as his heart raced within his breast, threatening to escape the cage that held it captive. It was real. Blue eyes stared upward, not even seeing the darkness of the room, so clouded were they by the shadows of his mind. It was real.

Marian was gone… Marian was gone.

Guy knew not how long he lay in this waking sleep, this nightmare he could not escape.

"_I am in hell," _he said within himself again and again; a living hell where the fires burned at his spirit before his soul could be sent there. He could not escape it, he could not escape her, and, worst of all, he could not escape himself.

In one fatal moment he could scarcely remember, scarcely believe, he had damned himself and released her to heaven. Like the angel she was, she watched over him, she visited him, she haunted him. He could not close his eyes without seeing her face and when he opened them he only found her image burned upon his mind. Her scent followed him wherever he went, her voice whispered soft words upon the wind, words that were lost to him forever.

It was real.


	2. Knights and Pawns

_Author's note: I have chosen the name Anjou over d'Anjou in order to over-Anglicize for the sake of keeping with the more contemporary language used in this story. _

_  
Don't worry: I never use MODERN words in period fiction, but I'm sure you appreciate that it is much easier than using old English or Norman, which the characters most likely spoke in real life._

_I also chose the name in order to establish that Rosalie and Edmund Anjou are related to King Richard. In fact, Richard was the Duc d'Anjou, having inherited the title from his father. They are completely fictional characters who would not have owned Anjou, but could have taken the name due to the fact that it was the land of their parentage and part of their family titles. For instance, Lady Marian is Marian Fitzwalter OF Knighton, not merely Marian of Knighton. _

_The final reason for over-Anglicizing the name was because I do not want my characters associated with the later Francois, Duc d'Anjou who paid court to Elizabeth I some 370 years later because I've never cared for him. _

Chapter One

Knights and Pawns

Sunlight streamed into a room filled with flowers and velvets, dancing across linen and lace, and cascading over soft tendrils of hair as it went. Dark eyes opened beneath the glare of the golden rays. The face in which they had been set was young and could beautiful when it smiled, but her dark, dark eyes did not twinkle in mirth, but stared into emptiness that should be unknown to one of her youth.

This should have been the happiest day of her life; this day when a girl becomes a bride, becomes a woman. She should have woken eagerly with a smile that outshone the May sun and a heart aflutter with anticipation. She had dreamt of this her entire life; she had played and replayed it over and over in her head as a child. Every detail was planned out: what her gown would look like, what flowers would decorate the church, what friends would be with her laughing and celebrating this step into a new and wonderful life.

Instead, she scorned the sun for daring to shine when, in her heart, it was raining. Her young, cruelly disillusioned heart that greeted every hour that brought her closer to her wedding with absolute dread.

Women do not choose their own fates: it is decided by their fathers, or their brothers, and sometimes even by princes who had scarcely laid eyes upon them. Rosalie Anjou did not choose this path. Instead, it was chosen by her father and Prince John. She had no sooner returned home from the convent at St Anne's before her name had been written on a contract she had yet to see and her hand pledged to a man she had never met. This stranger would take her far away from every thing she had ever known, would keep her like a possession, and, in return, she would gratefully bear his children and pray she did not die in childbirth.

For a moment she could not help but pray that she would die then and there before the serving girls came to dress her. She had heard of people who died of broken hearts and surely none had as much cause to be broken hearted as she.

"_No,_"she thought to herself, rallying her very last scrap of courage,_ "I will not be so defeated."_ In any case, no life could be worse than the one she had already known.

* * *

Prince John was in an unusually cheerful mood that morning: he always was when he felt like a king. Arranging marriages between distant cousins and flattering knights because, after all, his people were so dependant upon him for their happiness, sat well with him. He loved weddings, christenings, masses, and executions (especially executions) in which he dangled the puppet strings. Oh, how poor Richard would have hated this! Rosalie always was his favourite. What a shame his dear, dear brother always preferred boys; it would have been so much more satisfying to think of how it might break his lion heart.

"Roar," he scoffed as he smiled devilishly at his own reflection and fussed with an auburn curl at his brow.

His smile turned sour with annoyance when he saw the reflection of the livery-clad herald give a flourishing, and very low, bow.

"Sir Guy of Gisborne, Your Highness," announced the herald.

John rolled his eyes and let out a petulant sigh.

"Enter," he called in tedium.

Guy did not wait for a second invitation, but strode into the room in something that was half a march and half a sulk. John pasted on what he thought was one of his handsomest smiles, but could not keep it from falling flat when his royal eyes fell upon the brooding and black Gisborne.

"Good Lord, Gisborne," he groaned, "please tell me that's not what you're wearing for the ceremony."

"I have never been a man to follow after fashion, my lord," was the well worded and carefully weighed answer. Guy never had cared for London, much less its modus operandi, but decorum seemed to take a very different imperative when confronted with the Prince Regent. "I am a soldier; I have little luxury to care for appearance."

What he did not say was, _"I wore black the day I was meant to wed Marian, why should I do more for this spoilt wench?"_

Even as the name passed through his mind, Guy had to fight very hard to disguise how the thought had winded him. He could not have felt worse if Vasey had taken a sword hilt and thrust it between his ribs. Her scent wafted into the room and he held his breath to maintain control of himself. The last thing he ever wanted to do was betray any weakness to John Plantagenet.

"Oh, yes, yes," John carried on in what he thought was his most endearing and compassionate tone. "My brave warrior, you would do anything for your prince, would you not?"

The corners of Guy's mouth twisted upward and his clear eyes steeled themselves upon the prince's rosy, grinning, pompous face.

"Anything, my lord," he replied coolly as his eyes gleamed a bit like a Cheshire cat's.

He was getting exactly what he wanted: it would take a great fool to thwart this ploy and Guy of Gisborne was no fool.

"Yes," John cooed, his face awash with self-satisfaction, "of course you will." Then, with a sniff, John put his arm over Guy's shoulders and led him in turn about the room. "Guy, Guy, Guy…" he clucked, suddenly very animated, "Black is very, very bad luck for a wedding. This is meant to be a joyous occasion: a happy time! Really, can you blame me for only wanting the best for my dearest cousin?"

"Of course not, my lord," Guy answered, his voice laced with honey and a smile. "Forgive me."

The sound of a throat clearing itself caught the attention of both men and they turned to see the red-faced herald give another elaborate bow that struck Guy as something more akin to a curtsey.

"Lord Anjou, your highness," announced the herald.

The herald had scarcely finished speaking before a lean, overdressed, very impatient looking man with a perfectly trimmed black beard entered the room. Despite the afternoon heat, he stood very tall in fine, wine-coloured velvet and a very rich cloak. He did not sweat, as most men would have; his skin was as fair and as fine as a woman's with profile that immediately betrayed his French heritage. Guy instantly disliked him. He reminded him terribly of Lord Winchester, a scheming, treacherous, lying bastard whom he had taken great pleasure in killing nearly a year ago.

But he would not think of those times. He would not think of _her_ now.

Anjou gave a low and graceful bow that invoked memories of the Sheriff of Nottingham. His smile was as elegant and sickening as John's, but his eyes were as cold and calculating as Vasey's. Guy almost felt right at home.

"Edmund!" John greeted, "Congratulations on this happy day."

"Lord Anjou," Gisborne bowed at the shoulders, though his eyes never left the nobleman's face. He had a feeling that he would not want to turn his back on this one.

Anjou's ramrod spine seemed grow even stiffer as he examined the Black Knight before him. Guy refused to let the steely eyes disconcert him: he was what he was. Besides, he was not the one with goods to sell.

"Sir Guy," Anjou's voice sounded almost as expensive as his frock. "I thought you'd be shorter. Vasey never liked to be outdone in anything."

Guy glowered at the reminder of his years of service under the sheriff, but stood straighter, letting his height cast a shadow over Anjou's polished boots. He would not be reduced to a lackey by this pompous peacock, were he the prince's cousin or the prince's mistress.

"I can assure you, my lord," he said with a smile, "the sheriff has grown well accustomed to it."

"You mean Hood, of course," Edmund returned with a sniff. "I knew his father, you know. Locksley was as common as they came, still even I was surprised to hear the boy turned outlaw. –And you still haven't caught him, Gisborne?"

The final comment was perfectly aimed at the ticking nerve in Guy's jaw. Prince John licked his lips, waiting to see how his new man would respond.

Guy's manner only became more relaxed and amiable, which was a great fete for a man of action.

"Vasey rather enjoys his game of 'cat and mouse' with Hood," he explained, a white-hot glow burning in his eyes as his voice grew colder. "I think he has been loath to kill his pet. I can assure you, I have no such fondness."

* * *

Rosalie could feel the wind rushing through the open windows, but all she could hear was the sound of her own heart beating faster and faster. Voices seemed to whisper all about her, but the faces were obscure behind her veil. She was almost grateful for the refuge it provided. It was as though there was still one last barrier to protect her from the reality that came charging in.

The only form she was absolutely certain of was Prince John's: she could never mistake the pretentious austerity that clung to him. She had once heard that he out-dressed his own bride on his wedding day, He always seemed to have a desperate need to be at the centre of attention, but he always acted like such a woman about it.

Whenever she saw him, she could not help but think of King Richard. She was so young when she last saw him, little more than a child, but the image of him standing on the battlements, sunlight gleaming from his breastplate and from his golden hair always remained with her.

Even so, what she remembered best was how the Warrior-Poet sat her at his side and told her of his grand adventures in France. He was the one ray of light in her past and her one hope for the future. He would come back and he would unseat the eel in silks sitting on his throne… and she would be cloistered in some draughty manor in the North.

She was unsure whether she should laugh or cry. It was not until that moment that she realised a small part of her was still in love with Richard Lionheart. As she felt a solitary tear find its way down her pale cheek, she knew that the final remnant of her childhood had been cast aside.

She was ready.

Guy hated Robin Hood, he hated Edmund Anjou, he hated Sheriff Vasey, he hated Prince John, and he hated blue, damask doublets. The stiff collar seemed very likely to choke him if the close air of the room did not stifle him first.

"_No,"_ he thought, it was his own heart that would be his demise.

With every step that brought the bride closer to the altar, Guy found it increasingly difficult to block the memories of his wedding day. The rose-coloured gown was every instant replaced by Marian's gold one. He could still see her face, paled by the lace of her veil. How beautiful she was! How exquisite to watch her walking towards him, ready to become his: waiting beneath his fingertips.

"_It was all a lie!"_ A voice within him hissed and Guy set his teeth.

She had dreaded every step just as much as he was sure the young bride before him dreaded hers. She loathed him, she feared him, and, worst of all, she loved another.

"_I love Robin Hood."_

Guy set his jaw to keep the memories at bay, to keep her cruel, beautiful eyes out of his mind, out of his heart. But he could never banish her, not entirely…

Prince John was unsure whether he was still mightily pleased with himself or bored out of his mind. Gisborne looked surprisingly smart in the doublet he had been so generously accommodated with; he would have to remember to leave the blackguard in his habit from now on if he wanted to avoid competition. Anjou seemed especially coy; he must be sure to keep an eye on the old turnabout. The problem with traitors, after all, is that one can never know who they will turn on next.

Cousin Rosalie was prettier than he remembered, but then she was only a girl when she had last been at court. With a smile, he half-considered re-instating _prima nocta,_ but thought better of it. He was, after all, an enlightened ruler, not a barbarian like his brother. –Besides, virgins were so tedious; he was better off letting her husband break her in first.

Guy felt a small hand placed in his large one and he fought the urge to shrink from it. It was so very strange to feel another's skin against his. Touch had become alien to him, abhorrent even. He was surprised that her hand did not tremble. After all, he had expected a little more timidity from a convent-raised girl.

But she wasn't a girl, a look at the pale face behind the veil told him that much. Even the heavy lace could not shelter him from her dark, piercing eyes. He glowered and scowled, but she did not look away. The eyes kept gazing up into his, searing through him… Like Marian's.

Rosalie felt her blood run cold under his azure eyes. He looked at her as though he were trying to turn her to stone with his gaze, as though he were trying to fight her off in some way. His face was as hard as chiselled stone and black as sin, scarred with rage and hatred. He towered over her and by the feel of his rough hand she could vouchsafe that he could easily break her in half, but there was something in those eyes, hiding behind the rage and hatred… It was guilt, and loss, and deep sadness.


	3. Prima Nocta

Chapter Two  
Prima Nocta

When Rosalie was twelve, she ran away from St Anne's. She slipped away in the night and made it a fairly good way into the light of day. She had thought to make it to the coast, to stow away upon a merchant ship and travel to the Holy Land. She thought perhaps she would be found by English knights and taken to King Richard, as his cousin naturally should be. Then again, she thought it would be even better if she could disguise herself as a boy, become a warrior, and beat back Saladin's forces alongside her countrymen; then she would be worthy of his love.

She did not think the Abbess would employ the help of hunters or their hounds to track her down. At the sound of their approach, she ran with all her might, but she was not afraid of their sharp teeth or of their claws. She did not cry out when she was over taken, she did not even weep when Sister Elfgiva whipped her in punishment, though the blows had left their scars upon her soul as well as her body.

Rosalie's entire body shook with fear at the thought of what awaited her when her new husband joined her in their bridal chamber. She had grown up in a convent; she had barely been let back into the real world before being thrown into this… marriage. She knew little of men except that they were strong, powerful, and they ruled the world. She had never even been alone with one before now.

When the heavy door creaked open, Rosalie felt as though her heart had leapt into her throat. She sat ramrod straight in the bed, her face as pale as her shift even in the glow of the firelight. Her eyes fixed on the silhouetted figure of her husband in the threshold. _Her husband_, how she loathed that word! He was a man, a man she had never met before today and now he would share her bed. She began to wish the dogs had devoured her all those years ago: no fate could be worse than this.

Guy closed and bolted the door, taking great care to keep his back to his bride for as long as he possibly could. It amazed him that after all he had done, after all the evil, heinous sins he had committed, he still had not grown accustomed to the foul taste it left in his mouth. He had slaughtered the only woman he had ever loved; surely he could deflower a spoilt brat of a wench!

Then he turned away from the door. The sight of her transfixed him: this was not the fearless woman who stared into his face that afternoon, nor was she the spoilt brat he took her for. Dear God, she seemed fit to cry. For a moment, he replaced her image with Marian's, but that only added to his guilt as he thought of her watching this unholy night.

A fleeting part of him was tempted to tell the girl to go to sleep and spend his night on the hearthrug. That is what he would have done if it had been Marian before him, but this was not a marriage, this was a contract and it had to be fulfilled forthwith. He had gone to great lengths to attain a wife of royal blood and he would not have this disputed. His future, his wealth, and even his very life depended upon how he handled this arrangement.

Guy took a careful step toward the bed, not breaking eye-contact with the doe held captive there.

"What is your name?" he asked softly.

Rosalie did not think it odd that he asked: after all, this was nothing more than a contract and she was far too distracted with other concerns to notice. This was the first time they had ever spoken to one another and she could scarcely remember his name at that moment.

"Rosalie," she said. She was surprised her voice sounded so clear when it felt so thick in her throat.

Guy took another step toward the bed.

"Do you know mine?" he inquired.

"Sir Guy of Gisborne," came the breathless reply. Guy was not sure whether it was because she could not recall it or because he was within arm's reach of the bed.

He swallowed down bile. The last woman he had lain with was Annie, the serving wench who had borne his bastard. She was sweet, but she was far from virginal and she was more than willing. He appreciated a challenge, but he had always liked to believe that women who came to his bed were stirred by him. When he met Marian, she had already been betrothed once before, she knew a little more of the world, and she was far too curious for her own good. Rosalie was different. She had been cloistered and sheltered her whole life.

"Rosalie," he said, sitting down on the bed beside her. It took all of his strength to speak gently again. Tenderness was something he had all but forgotten. It had been so long…So long since he had spoken to her.

"_Stay and make this place bearable."_

He had intended to avoid those eyes of hers, but in his reverie he forgot himself only to find too late that he was ensnared.

"I will not tell you that there is nothing to fear," he said, gritting his teeth. "But it will never be unbearable: you may even find you enjoy it. In any case, you need only endure my bed until you have given me an heir, then I'll let you be. You have my word."

"How can I trust you, when I do not know you?" Rosalie asked, her fears seeming to dissipate as the man before her became more and more human in her eyes.

"You do not want to know me, Rosalie," he told her. For a moment, the anger gave way and his bride could see only the loss that echoed from his eyes.

"Must we always be strangers?" she questioned, her brow arching almost whimsically.

"You will be much happier if we are," he replied tersely. It would be better for both of them if they reached an understanding now. Guy leaned forward until his face was inches from hers and held her gaze steadily. "I care not what you do or how you feel. Desire me or hate me if you will, but know this: if you ever betray me or dishonour me, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?"

"And if I do not?" Rosalie asked, her voice only waning a little.

"Then you will always have my protection and provision," he answered with smug grin, "as fits a cousin of the king."

"And kindness?" she ventured.

Guy glowered and looked away. No one had ever dared ask him for clemency, much less kindness. Those who knew him knew well enough to believe him completely incapable of it. That is, all save Marian and for all his feeble attempts he could not shut her out of his mind. Poor Rosalie, little did she know that she shared her bed not only with a brute, but with his fiend of an angel that taunted him at every turn.

It shocked him when he felt his bride's fingertips creep over his hand until her palm pressed against his skin of her own volition. He lifted his gaze to meet hers and felt the hand upon his begin to tremble once more.

Guy's throat tightened in a frisson of desire that heated his veins. Rosalie was stirred by him, but she was also frightened. She had no choice but to trust him, he was her only surety now and she was his possession. She was his wife and she was waiting for him to teach her how to be such.

He could not be kind; he could not teach her what it was to love. He could only bed her and hope his seed took so that he need never feel her hands upon him again and so that he need never see his reflection in her eyes.

"My lord," Rosalie said softly, trying to draw him out of his reverie.

Guy put his finger to her lips to silence her, but the gesture was neither harsh nor forbidding.

"Lie down," he instructed quietly.

She obeyed dutifully and reclined rigidly against the down pillows and velvet blankets. He could almost see the pulse in her neck as he felt her staring up at him in fearful anticipation.

No matter how he tried, he could not banish the ghost of Marian that blinded Guy to his wife's beseeching eyes. He had dreamt so long of spending this night with her, of hearing her voice call his name. A part of him would never accept the fact that that dream would never come true, that he had shattered it with his own hand.

He had drunk his fair share at the revelry. Over the past months, drink had become his sole companion when the night hours plagued him, taunting him with sleep. But no matter how much he drank, he could never quite escape the memories. Tonight he did not have the luxury of completely drowning his sorrows: he had to keep his wits close about him with the prince and Anjou close at hand, but whenever he thought of the task that awaited him upstairs, he swallowed a hearty gulp to steel his nerve.

He was almost grateful now that the liquor seemed to be taking effect. Rosalie began to look less like Marian and Guy could see that she was lovely, as long as he did not look at her dark eyes. She had soft, fair skin that glimmered like alabaster in the firelight and hair of spun amber. Her lips were perfectly formed, like Hood's Saracen bow, and opened slightly when his eyes fell over them. She wanted to be kissed.

Of course she wanted to be kissed: she was a maid on her wedding night. She wanted to believe that the man beside her would not use her ill almost as much she wanted to believe that she may grow to love him.

Guy could not lie to her.

"_There is good in you, Guy of Gisborne."_

The words echoed in his mind, even though he had long stopped listening. A good man did not slay the woman he loved over… Jealousy? Marian's words had cut him to the very core of his being. She loved his enemy: everything she had ever said to him, everything he thought they shared was a lie. It was the deepest of betrayals, but now he thought that love should have survived it. Perhaps it had, but so had the pain.

"My lord," Rosalie said again, breaking her husband from his reverie.

"Yes," he replied lowly, reaching to finger the lace at the low neckline of her shift.

"Where have you gone?" she asked him, examining his darkened face that refused to look into hers.

Guy's lips parted to answer her, but found he could not. When had his frightened doe grown so brave to venture into the chasms of his soul? He set his jaw and attempted to swallow, but discovered his throat was dry. He would not let her in. He would never let her in.

If Rosalie had asked him at the wrong moment, when he was in the wrong frame of mind, or when drink had not ebbed away his anger long enough to render him safe to be near her, he would have nearly throttled her for treading so far. He would have to teach her to know her place, he could see, but in that moment he was weary of being a monster.

That bold tongue of hers had to be silenced, so he gave her lips what they wanted: a dry and chaste kiss. He felt the heat flood into her cheeks and knew that he was the first to lay claim upon them. Rosalie was his and only his and that gave him immense satisfaction. He was tired of second-hand goods, from Locksley to Marian, now, for the first time in his life, he felt he had grasped something untainted.

Before entering the room, Rosalie had told herself if it was too terrible, she would think of Richard. For a moment, when Guy first pressed his lips to hers, she did and imagined her beautiful king tenderly touching her face, but she found that his visage was growing difficult to hold onto to. She remembered clear blue eyes, but all she saw were clouded, darkened spheres that refused to rest upon hers. The sunlight of Lionheart's golden hair was eclipsed by Guy's black night that banished all light from the room, save hers.

Guy did not look at her as he undressed. She almost as felt as though he had forgotten she was there and in a way, he had. Rosalie was young, but she knew sorrow and she understood it well. She could trace its footsteps and follow the marks it left upon the faces of its companions, especially in their eyes. Guy and sorrow were as close as brothers.

In a way, she was grateful he did not look at her. It made her feel safe, it was like an assurance that, though her body was his property, her soul was her own and he did not care to ravish that.

Gisborne had stripped down to his braies before the cool air upon his skin had summoned him back to reality enough to feel his bride's eyes upon him. He turned to glare at the face that burned his flesh and caught her head as it turned away. The little pluck was still shy.

Rosalie was still looking away when he rejoined her on the bed and for a moment he thought of Marian sleeping soundly in her bed at Knighton Hall. The image vanished quickly and Guy's addled and sleep-ridden mind began to haze.

"Rosalie," he said evenly, not even reaching out to touch her. "Look at me"

She turned to meet his gaze bravely.

"I am ready," she whispered softly.

Guy sighed and lay down beside her, allowing his hand to run absently up and down the length of her arm. He was trying, though he knew not to what end.

"Do not fight against me," he told her simply, his voice sounding almost tender.

Rosalie nodded, though every muscle in her body tensed as he edged closer to her.

Tears filled her eyes and soon bathed her cheeks when he took her, but she did not cry out. Before they had begun, Guy instructed her to bite down on his shoulder when the moment came, but the proud woman balked at the idea. She would not let him know how much he hurt her, nor would she be so childish as to hurt him back. Now she buried her teeth deep in his sinewy flesh, grateful for some outlet to her pain.

He grunted under the sting, but at the same time he welcomed the pain that came crashing through his clouded senses, tethering him to reality. The skin on his neck felt damp and he knew it was from Rosalie's tears. For a moment he envied her: he was spent of tears, dry and hollow inside. There was still life in her, still a soul, and he tried to remember what it felt like to be innocent.

Guy did not linger a moment more than necessary and Rosalie soon felt a cool cloth bathing her face as a low voice murmured that it was over now and she could sleep.

"Does it always hurt?" she asked, her voice a childish whisper that almost cut to his core.

"No," he answered softly. "Now sleep."


	4. Lackland's Lackey

Chapter Three  
Lackland's Lackey

Spring turned quickly into summer, but Guy of Gisborne paid no heed to the change in the weather. He did not sweat under the midday sun, or if he did, he never noticed. His weeks in London had been occupied with little beyond training his new regiment and wheedling his way further into Prince John's favour. In truth, Guy preferred the training ground to the royal hall whenever given the choice. With a sword or a bow in his hand, he could not think of what he should say or do that would most please the prince, or of how he could be advanced in status. When he sparred, he had to keep his mind carefully focused on the task at hand.

The men learned quickly and Guy pushed them hard, determined to convince Prince John that he was better suited to serve him than Vasey. Everything was going more perfectly than he could have imagined. The prince had given him men and money enough to lead a campaign against Nottingham, and if that was not enough, he had even made Guy a member of his family.

Guy could never fully suppress the chuckle that bubbled in his throat when he thought of how the sheriff would respond to that. Guy was a member of the royal family: Edmund Anjou had no sons and when he died his lands and gold would pass to his son-in-law through Rosalie. For the first time in his life, he truly had power and wealth: a secure position in the world. He was no longer Vasey's lackey.

To think it had all come at such a small price as well! A few flattering words to John Lackland, as the people called him, and a promise to kill Robin Hood. Guy almost felt as though the world had been handed to him on a platter. In John, he had found the one person who could provide him with the means to fulfil his heart's desire. He dreamed of killing Hood, of making him pay for the hell Guy now lived in, of making him pay for the sin of having everything Guy truly wanted.

It was this thought, this desire, which propelled Guy through every day. Every time his fingers closed over the hilt of his sword, he imagined it thrusting through Robin Hood's fearless, bleeding heart. He wanted Hood to feel as he did: to be without a life, to be without a soul.

Of course, life at a court could not be entirely spent with a sword in hand. Many tiresome days and nights had to be passed fawning over John and reassuring him that he was loved and that he would soon be king. In truth, if John had not been born the son of Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine, Guy was certain Lackland would have been sacked long ago. But as it was, Richard was more concerned with killing people in the Holy Land than of governing his country and producing heirs to succeed his throne. It was not his plan to give John such power, or indeed any part in government at all. He left the government to a chancellor; he did not think his whelp of a little brother would waltz into London and take hold of the regency. Honestly, no one would have thought John had the gall. Perhaps he did not, but he did have the money.

When one was in Prince John's favour, he flourished, whereas Richard seemed to believe his love and friendship were enough reward to those loyal to him. But it was not money that fed Guy's appetite now nor was it even power. It was revenge: revenge against Hood, revenge against the sheriff for the evil that had visited him because of them. He could think little else by day. He looked neither to the future nor to the past, but thought only of that sweet moment when he would settle all scores between them once and for all.

"Prince John approaches, my lord!" cried a lieutenant, alerting Guy to the royal entourage as it appeared on the horizon.

Guy tossed his blade to a squire and paced toward the canopy that had been erected alongside the Thames. It was far enough upstream from London for the water to smell sweet and it provided for a cool respite at midday. It was a castle steward who advised the location: Guy had cared little about the terrain and only thought of the work ahead. However, now that his campsite was to host Prince John, he was grateful for the little luxury afforded.

"Bring wine for the prince!" Guy bellowed, sending page boys scurrying.

At first, the sight of the approaching host disturbed Guy greatly. What could the prince possibly want here? Guy had been sure of his men, but the first thought of demonstrating his leadership to Prince John unsettled him. He knew that as easy as it may be to fall into Lackland's favour, it was just as simple to fall out. Now, as the procession drew nearer to the camp and Guy could see the pomp and splendour of it, his fears were slowly ebbing away.

The pageant was almost fit for a returning hero: Prince John must be in a very good mood.

"Call the men to attention!" Guy ordered his lieutenant, and the command was echoed throughout the throng.

Prince John was certainly in a very good mood. He was always a little too animated, but today he seemed fit to entertain his own fool. He was over dressed in Plantagenet colours: blue, red, and gold which made Guy half think the prince had come to be crowned king rather pay a Visit of State to his troops. He had also seen to it his footmen and guards were decked in the royal livery, down to the last horse in the entourage.

John rode into the camp as though he were expecting to be bathed in rose petals, but even he realised soon enough that the likelihood of this band of soldiers raining flowers upon anyone was slim. Surprisingly, that did not sour his disposition and he sat taller in the saddle as though he fancied himself a mighty warlord in the face of the throng that wore his colours and followed his command.

When the prince had arrived at the canopy, Guy bowed low to his mounted liege, asking to what he owed such an honour.

"Matters of great security," John replied almost petulantly as he swung off of his horse.

Guy tried not to be surprised that, despite the importance to security, the prince seemed intent upon speaking in such a way that all may hear. "Matters which pertain directly to you," the prince went on as he strutted into the shade of the canopy and the comfort of the wine chalice that awaited him.

"With all my power, I do vow to serve you, my liege," Guy recited in a voice that was almost parrot-like, even to his own ears.

Prince John did not answer; he was too engrossed with draining the contents of his goblet. He never liked riding! It always made his throat so dry. Still, he could not believe there was a man in England who sat better in a saddle than he.

"My lord," a clear voice rang over Guy's shoulder, causing him to turn so quickly that his neck clicked.

He was shocked indeed to see Rosalie perched atop a bay. Her dark eyes stared at him expectantly and cautiously, trying to read his looks. The sight of her here, at his camp, unnerved him. He had felt that he had carefully relegated his new life: this was his world, his world of escape from her, from feelings, and from Marian. She belonged in his bedchamber, she was his companion by night like his ghosts, but now she had followed him into the day.

Guy set his jaw as he strode up to her horse. For a moment, she almost smiled at him, but her face quickly fell flat when she saw the brooding look in his eyes. Without a word, he aided her off her mount and led her beneath the canopy were the prince had taken possession of Guy's finest chair.

"Cousin," Rosalie was the first to speak, addressing Lackland with surprising familiarity that made Guy's stomach clench. "You have kept me waiting all this time. What is it that is so important that you must discuss it with my husband before any other?"

Guy felt his pride swell within him. Not even he had imagined the prince would so value his judgment or his service. To have the ear of the ruling power was a great triumph, one that he would be sure Vasey knew of soon enough.

"Shall I send my wife away, Your Highness?" Guy asked, pretending not to notice the sidelong glance Rosalie sent his direction.

"No, Guy," John replied, affecting a most distraught manner of voice and expression. "This is a family matter."

Until that moment, Rosalie was having none of John's charade. She knew when he was up to something: as much as she loathed him, they were family after all; she could recognise the tell-tale signs of Angevin duplicity. She was sure it came from their French blood, it seemed entirely too brazen to be English, or even Norman for that matter. But when John said the word 'family' her heart was gripped with cold fear.

"_Richard!"_ The name echoed through her mind like the roaring sea. Richard, her sunlight, her future… _"Sweet Jesu, let Richard return home!"_

"Oh, dear cousin," John cried, extending his hand to Rosalie as he twisted his face behind a lace handkerchief. "Come lend my poor heart strength!"

Sirens sounded in Rosalie's mind, but she knew John held the cards and if she wanted to evade the Tower, then she would play his game. She stepped forward cautiously and gingerly placed her hand in her cousin's uplifted palm only to be yanked toward him as he clasped an arm about her waist and hid his face against her belly.

It took every last drop of Guy's resolve to refrain from rolling his eyes at this display. For a moment, he almost wondered if Lackland had not planned this whole farce simply to spend the afternoon weeping against his wife's bosom. He knew the prince was preposterous enough to do it.

He meant to avert his gaze somehow while the cousins stood in their familial embrace, but something in Rosalie's face caught his eye and held his scrutiny. She remained cool and still, but a glint in her eyes betrayed her disgust with the situation. His eyes then fell to John who seemed all too comforted by his cousin's arms.

"My lord, what calamity has befallen our family?" Guy finally asked, as much to rescue Rosalie as to return to the matter at hand.

John seemed to remember how marvellous his story was for he sat up quickly, brushing a grateful Lady Gisborne aside.

"I have received this from our agents in Germany," he began, waving for a footman to come forward with a scroll.

Rosalie watched her husband's face as he read its contents as though she might discern their message through his eyes. Her heart stilled within her and she knew she would not feel it beat again until she knew whether Richard was alive or dead. For a moment, she even hoped that he had been wounded in the Holy Land and was returning to England forthwith.

When Guy finally spoke, his voice sounded alien to his own ears.

"King Richard has been captured by Leopold of Austria," he said, scarcely believing it himself. "He is being held for ransom at 150,000 marks."

"Dear God!" Rosalie cried, her face pale with shock. "Can we not send soldiers to Austria?"

"Silence, woman," Guy muttered through gritted teeth.

It was indeterminate whether Rosalie had not heard him in her passion or if she had simply ignored him.

"Cousin," she continued, hoping to appeal to the heart of Richard's brother, the heart of a boy who had once loved and admired his hero-brother. "We must save him. There must be some way to bring him home."

"ROSALIE!" Guy roared.

In that moment it seemed as if the earth itself had silenced at Guy's command. Erstwhile, his wife stood pale-faced, staring into his clouded eyes with dread. He had never raised his voice in her presence before. She knew that there was a dark and evil side to this man she married, but this was her first real glimpse of it. She almost shrank under his gaze: he looked fit to kill her if she opened her mouth again and she had a feeling it would be wise not to try him.

"Now, Guy," soothed John, smiling devilishly at his new dog's bark. "Come, come… She is only as worried for my dear brother's safety as I, which is why I am come."

Guy did not fail to notice John's grin brighten.

"Our forces have been depleted most terribly by the Holy War," Lackland explained, "we have no men to spare, dear cousin, and even if we did we would not know where to find him. We have no choice but to meet Leopold's demands." John turned to Rosalie as though she had moved to speak, but she was still. "I know, I know, cousin: the coffers are so bare, but we must raise the money, whatever it takes." John turned to his new Right Arm. "Guy, I want you to return to Nottingham. To raise the King's Ransom, the taxes must be raised. The people of England must save their King now."

"Surely, taxes are the sheriff's prerogative," Guy protested, trying to keep his voice from grumbling.

"Well, he certainly has not been making his monthly tribute," John snapped. "In any case, you are going to take care of another stumbling block. Robin Hood steals from the royal coffers, he is a traitor to his country, and I am as certain that he will stand in the way of the king's return as I am of my salvation. He must be stopped."

Guy smiled darkly at John's next command:

"I want you to capture and execute the criminal Robin Hood."


	5. Magic Hour

Chapter Four  
Magic Hour

Robin opened his eyes to take in the golden light from the sun that fell across his face and the sleeping form beside him. He smiled and breathed in the delicious scent of her dark hair as he felt her stir within his embrace. The comfort of her skin upon his permeated the very core of his being and, in that moment, he felt truly happy.

"Good morning, my wife," he whispered into clear blue eyes that shone up at him with all the brilliance of the skies.

"Good morning, my husband," she replied as her sweet lips spread into a smile before seeking a kiss from his.

He readily granted her request, thinking once again that there was no taste sweeter than her soft mouth. Marian: his Marian.

"I am going to take you to the meadow today," he promised softly. "Now that summer has come, it is full of butterflies. I even saw a hummingbird."

Marian's eyes danced with laughter, causing him to chuckle with her.

"What?" he asked, feigning injury at her teasing.

"Robin Hood: Outlaw, Freedom Fighter, and butterfly lover," she mocked, gripping her side with laughter.

"I am only your lover, Marian of Locksley," he replied, claiming her mouth once more with his.

Robin awoke alone in the forest. Marian was gone and in her place was an emptiness that threatened to crush him. So many nights he had dreamed that she was by his side, that what happened at Acre was only a nightmare, but when dawn came he would open his eyes and the real nightmare would begin. Marian was gone. Marian had been taken from him on their wedding day. No sooner had the vows been spoken had she… had she departed.

His angel had flown to heaven, leaving him to fight his demons alone.

Robin's chest knotted in pain as images of Marian lying bleeding in the sand came unbidden to his mind. He clenched his eyes shut, but the effort was futile. Memories came flooding in, bringing to realisation the full depth of what he had lost. She was more than just a lover, she was his childhood sweetheart and companion. They had shared memories and dreams together. She was his family, she was a part of him; she had made him the man he was today. She was the force the propelled him onward, the thing that kept him going. She made him a good man. Now she was gone…

The world seemed such a strange and different place. Those who had survived Acre returned to unchanged villages, an unchanged England that did not know how close she had come to losing her husband. Robin had always believed that people were good, that it was only the few who brought evil into this world. Now he realised that evil was the ruler of the world: a world where scum like Vasey and Gisborne crawled the earth and Marian was murdered. Robin returned wanting nothing more than to kill Guy of Gisborne, to make him pay for what he had done. Every day, that desire burned within him like a smouldering coal, waiting for a breath of air to set it ablaze. He was incensed when he returned to Nottingham to learn the Gisborne had not returned with Vasey.

Rumour had it that the sheriff had sent Gisborne to account to Prince John for their failure at Acre. When summer came without the Black Knight, Nottingham breathed a sigh of relief, thinking perhaps he would never return. It was logical to assume that Gisborne's head was mounted on a spike at the Tower, but something inside Robin told him it was not over yet. Gisborne was alive: he could feel it. They would meet again and Robin would be ready.

"Robin!" called the low bellow of Tuck as the friar came bounding over the northern crest of a hill. He was followed close behind by Allan A' Dale while Little John and Much appeared from the east, where the campsite was hidden.

Robin stood and waited for them to draw near. They were out of breath and panting from the run, but from the look in their eyes, something serious was happening.

"What is it, Tuck?" Robin asked coolly, his Northern accent thick after a night without use.

"Soldiers are coming," the friar replied, recovering his breath and shifting his weight to stretch out his aching side. "They are guarding a carriage bearing the Anjou coat of arms."

Robin's ears pricked.

"Anjou!" he said in disbelief. "Only a member of the king's family would travel under the Anjou crest in England."

"Prince John has come to Nottingham?!?" Much cried incredulously, in a tone that was both askance and exclamation.

Robin shook his head with a smirk.

"Knowing Lackland as I do, he would only travel under the Royal Standard," he grinned.

Allan's keen sense of humour was not tickled by the jest as it normally would have been. He stood with his arms crossed as his brows knit together in disquiet.

"Rob, there's more," he said quietly, stilling the air around him.

Robin did not believe Allan could be too serious or that his concerns could be too heavy. Allan was sharp, but in many ways he was still very simple and Robin still liked to believe that he could take on any challenge. For that reason, he still held his smirk when the faces around him fell.

"What is it, Allan?" he urged.

"I'm not being funny," Allan began, "but Gisborne is back."

* * *

The summer sun cast its glare upon the shire in the heat of the late morning, but Robin's world was dark. He kept carefully hidden in the thicket, watching the entourage weave its way into Locksley village, but seeing nothing in the blackness that veiled his eyes. Rage and hatred gripped his breast as his sharp eyes darted to and fro, searching for their target.

The entourage made its way up the road to Nottingham while the soldiers' helmets glinted in the sunlight. Blue, red, and gold painted the narrow country road, bringing out crowds of onlookers to take in the spectacle. The children seemed to think it was a grand parade, but the older ones knew that armed men on horseback usually meant more taxes and they had already given their livelihoods to the sheriff; therefore, they watched with weary and hopeless eyes.

Robin was getting anxious. Where was Gisborne? The blackguard could usually be seen at the front of the guard, but he was no where in sight. At last, his eyes caught their prey. Gisborne's usually tall form sat a little lower in the saddle than had been his wont, but his stern features were unmistakable. His horse kept a canter close to the coach, unlike him and an unusual position for a guard, but Robin did not consider that in that moment.

Robin's arm felt whole again as he put arrow to bow and pulled back, setting his aim for Gisborne's heart, assuming he had one. He could smell the resin in the wood; he could feel the strands in the drawstring stretch back, bending to his will as his arrow prepared to fly. Whenever he shot an arrow, he felt as though he flying with it. That is how it would be now: he would soar through the air, leaving all around him astounded, he would enter Gisborne's body, and he would rip the life from his veins just as the villain had done to Marian.

"Sam!" cried a shrill voice.

Robin whipped around to see two small, ruddy boys tearing through the trees. Following close at their heels was a tall, lean man wielding a hatchet above his bald head.

"Thieves!" the man bellowed, "You will pay for this!"

"Sam, run!" shouted the slightly taller boy, fear gripping his voice.

Robin swallowed hard. He knew what would happen to the boys if they were caught. The law was clear in Nottingham: if a man was caught stealing, he lost his hand. The new sheriff did not differentiate between men and boys. He was Robin Hood: it was his duty to save and defend them, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to leave them to their fate. He had waited so long for this moment and now he could finally taste it. Surely, just once, he could stop being the hero.

He set his aim once more and turned to focus on Gisborne, but all he could see was Marian.

* * *

Sam and Finn were certain they had reached the end. Their legs felt like a thousand needles were pricking them as their lungs heaved for air. Finn was smaller, so he fell first and Sam, being the braver one went back and tried to get his brother to stand up, but the truth was that he could not run any further either.

Their pursuer came bounding into the clearing, his face red from exertion and his black eyes were aflame in rage. His hatchet gleamed in the sunlight, making it look even bigger to the already frightened boys.

Their little hearts beat all the faster at the sight of him towering over their small forms. Their blue eyes fixed upon him without so much as blinking and every last drop of colour drained from the faces. It seemed as though even their shock red hair was going pale.

"Got you!" snarled the bald man, glaring down at them. Sweat dripped down his face and fell onto the forest floor near their bare feet. "Now who is first?"

"You are," replied a cool and even voice.

The bald man turned to see no other than Robin Hood standing behind him, his bow primed to fire.

* * *

Rosalie did not attempt to hide her contempt at being kept in a stuffy coach for so long. She had thought the climate would be cooler in the north, but she found the closeness of the trees and the coach stifling. Her husband had flatly denied her request to travel on horseback, though he never deigned to join her in the fire-trap on wheels. She took her cues from his mood and refrained from speaking to him unless absolutely necessary.

His mood had been especially foul since Prince John had ordered him back to Nottingham. At least, it was where she was concerned. In general, she could see that he was delighted for the opportunity to exercise his newly acquired power and wealth. She never once thought that everything he now had came from her. He was man, she was a woman and in this world, money went from man to man, often through a woman. Her property was not her own, it was her father's and now it would be her husband's.

Rosalie had once attempted to question Guy about Locksley, but his answers came out in growls and grumbles so she soon left it alone. It was clear Guy did not consider Locksley his home and even more painfully clear that it held unwanted memories. Finally, she contented her self with imagining what her new home would be like. She wondered if she would be granted rule of the house, as a wife ought to be, or if Guy's word was law at home as well as in the battle field. She liked the idea of housekeeping, the idea of having command of something in a world where she must always obey.

Oft during the long hours in carriage, she would peer out her window and watch her husband as he rode his black mount. There was little else to entertain her, so Rosalie spent a good deal of time observing her husband, learning how to read his moods. She wondered what the world had done to him that could make him the man he was now. She wondered who this man was. It amazed her that one man could brood so much. She had never seen him smile and almost believed she never would. Even her father would smile, if only because of his own selfish amusement. Prince John seldom stopped smiling, unless he was not getting exactly what he wanted when he wanted it.

Rosalie could not help but wince when she remembered their smiles the day after her wedding. In fulfillment of the contract, Guy presented the prince and Anjou with the sheets from their bridal bed before Rosalie had even woken. When she met with them that afternoon, the fiendish look in their eyes made her skin crawl. Prince John had always frightened her, but the way he looked at her that day made her feel more violated than she would have felt had she been thrown to the throng.

At least now she was far away from him.

Robin arrived at Locksley Manor in time to watch see Gisborne dismount and await the coach in the yard. Now was his chance!

He drew the length of his arrow across the bow, poised to fire.

Then something happened Robin did not expect. The door of the coach opened and Gisborne stepped forward, extending his gloved hand to receive the milky white hand of a woman. Robin breath caught at the sight of her. Her hair gleamed in the sun, her skin was encased in sea-coloured silk, and her dark eyes looked directly at him.

He lowered his bow, almost against his will as those eyes seemed to burn straight through him. Robin spent his life hiding, the only person who had ever found him before was Marian, but this woman was not Marian.

She stood like lily in the sunlight, untainted and unafraid of Gisborne's blackness beside her. Her dark eyes soon left him to take in the surrounding grounds and finally rest upon their usurper.

What happened next would astonish Robin.

Gisborne cleared his throat and began to lead the lady to the threshold saying, "Welcome home, Lady Gisborne."


	6. Locksley's Lady

Chapter Five  
Locksley's Lady

Robin felt sick as he watched Lady Gisborne walk upon her husband's stiff arm. This woman was mistress of Marian's home and she would bear Marian's title, "Lady Locksley", as such. He could not fathom how this was possible, how Gisborne could win a bride when he had murdered Robin's. He felt a stab of guilt as he looked, thinking of how she had found him even in the darkness of the forest, of how a look from her eyes had stayed his hand.

This was wrong! She was not a corrupt courtier seduced by Gisborne's wealth or power. She was pure as driven snow. She was untouched by her husband's evil; she was not a part of him. What had Gisborne done to her?

Robin raised his bow again. He could do it! One moment and the world would be right again. Marian would be avenged and this poor girl would be free from her brute of a lord. It would take only one moment.

He could feel his breath hitch in his throat and his nostrils flared as he fought to bring himself under control. His aim had to be perfect, he had to be sure that Gisborne was finished.

He found his target upon Gisborne's back and drew back his arrow in a motion that felt more natural to him than his own breath. He prepared to let his shot fly, but his mark was foiled. The new Lady of Locksley stretched her arm across her lord's back and drew him out of Robin's aim.

Robin dropped his bow as he cursed the fates that thwarted him, but in the same breath he lifted his gaze and met the lady's dark eyes. He could not look away.

* * *

Rosalie breathed a sigh of relief when the door of the manor closed and her husband was safe within doors. He did not know how close he had come with death, but she somehow knew that she would only be able to keep him safe by not telling him. She wondered about the man in the woods, who he was, why he watched them, and most of all why he would want to kill her husband.

She could have given him up, she could have told Guy and sent soldiers after him, but there was something in his eyes that silenced her. Guy and this stranger shared a common a friend: sorrow. He had the look of one who had lost everything, of a man on the verge of losing his soul. In many ways, she thought, he could have been Guy's twin.

Her heart leapt as she thought of how close she had come to widowhood and she wondered why it mattered to her whether the knight across from her lived or died. He did not seem to care for her welfare as much. Nonetheless, she sent a silent prayer of thanks to heaven for sparing him.

She stood quietly while Guy barked orders to an obedient steward called Thornton, waiting for a moment alone with him, a moment to receive some reward for the deed she had done. Finally, the steward left and she saw her opportunity.

Rosalie stepped toward her husband and clasped her small hand around his large one, eliciting an incredulous stare from his steely eyes.

"Rosalie," he said softly, his eyes giving her a mild warning as he pried her fingers away from him. After she had put her arm around his neck in the court yard, he felt it best to save her from asking stone to bleed. "Do not delude yourself that this is anything more than what it is."

She brought her rejected hand to into a coil over her breast. She stiffened under his icy gaze and summoned enough courage to round on him.

"Exactly what is this, then?" she demanded, bringing herself up to her full height. Her voice came out forcefully, catching a little as he drew near and loomed over her.

For a moment, she thought Guy might strike her. He was within his right to beat her if she disrespected him and in Nottingham he need not fear the repercussion of her royal cousins, not that she expected protection from John. Rosalie had been beaten before, but her father was not as strong as her husband and he was generally drunk. Guy was deadly sober.

Guy noted the flicker of fear behind his wife's eyes with something between a smirk and a snarl. He liked the power he felt when others squirmed before him and this was no different, but for a brief second, he remembered that on their wedding night she had dared to venture into the dark chasms of his mind. Now she seemed to start at his slightest movement, but only a little. He swallowed hard.

"We have a bargain you and I," he reminded her, his tone remaining neutral, though his eyes glared down at her. "I will protect and provide for you and in return you will bear my child."

"What if I prove barren?" she challenged, feeling her pulse quicken in anger.

"Then you will be all the luckier for it," Guy replied coldly, brushing past her and heading up the stairs.

Rosalie was exhausted after the long journey from London and her nerves were still rattled from nearly witnessing her husband's murder, which he was not grateful to have been saved from. It was clear Guy would not raise his hand against her and, even if he did, she realised that it did not matter to her anymore. She huffed and gathered her skirts in her hands to follow after him.

"How am I to live with you if I do not know where we stand?" she questioned. "What rights do I have in this arrangement?"

By now they had reached the second floor and what Rosalie assumed was the door to their chamber because Guy stopped before it and turned to face her.

"What more do you want, woman?" he demanded in a low and even tone, speaking slowly to keep his temper in check.

Rosalie stared back into his cold eyes and felt hers begin to sting. What more did she want? She wanted to be a thousand miles away from Nottingham, a thousand miles away from him. She wanted to have Richard safe at home. Beyond that, she did not have the faintest idea. What did she want for her life? Surely it was not this bargain.

Guy let out a snort and knocked the door open with a smirk.

"I thought as much," he sneered. "Tell Thornton to have my bath prepared," he ordered as he marched into the chamber.

"Please," came a cold reply.

Guy stopped and turned to glare at her. "What?"

Rosalie straightened. "I am not a servant, I am the king's cousin," she reminded him, before adding with some hesitancy: "And I am your wife. Say please and I will do as you ask, but not before."

For a moment it occurred to Guy that he did not have to deal with this situation. He could simply go into the hallway and shout for his bath to be drawn, he certainly did not need Rosalie's compliance. For a moment, he decided to bellow out his demands in the most frightening tone he could muster, just to see her flinch at the sight of his anger. But as he stared into her eyes, her determination melted his resolve.

"Very well," he acquiesced with a grumble, drawing near her and bowing his tall frame so that his face was level to hers. His eyes shot daggers and the corners of his mouth twisted into a sneer as he spoke to her. "Please go and ask Thornton to have my bath prepared, my lady."

He then walked back into the chamber and shut the heavy oak door upon Rosalie.

Then, and only then, did Rosalie allow herself a few silent tears.

What did she want? She wanted a world where she was free to choose her life. She wanted to be free of the chains that hung round her neck. She wanted to be her own person, not someone's chattel, but that was all she would ever be in this world. She had belonged to her father and now she belonged to Guy of Gisborne: a man she did not know and could not understand.

* * *

It was well past midday when Guy re-emerged from his chambers, now cleaned and groomed. He feigned not to give thought to his appearance, but in former days Guy believed himself to be quite handsome. Now he seldom looked in the glass for whenever he did, he saw only a monster, a murderer. Today, however, was different: appearance was everything. He must show himself to be every bit Prince John's cousin and right arm, while the sheriff was swiftly falling out of favour. Today he would meet with Vasey for the first time since their return from Acre.

Guy frowned when he remembered how readily his employer had clapped him in irons and sent him to the certain death that awaited him in Prince John's court. Vasey had smiled and reminded him that it was, after all, due to his failure and incompetence that Hood and Lionheart were both still alive… All because of a leper.

The mere thought of Marian caused Guy to wince. He would have to be stronger than this: the sheriff would be sure to have arrows with her name on them within his arsenal. He was a man who delighted not only physical torture, but to reach into people's souls, root out what was most dear to them, and corrupt it. He was like Satan himself, but Guy was accustomed to dancing with the devil. He had sold him his soul, after all.

He marched down the stairs into the hall and began to bellow for his horse to be saddled when he caught sight of Rosalie. She was fast asleep in a chair by the hearth with her head bent to the side uncomfortably. Her braids had come loose and tendrils of hair found their way over her shoulders and across her flushed face.

Guy slowed his gait and tread carefully across the floor so that he would not wake her. Even as she slept, she looked exhausted and worn. He almost chagrined himself, but immediately concluded that her weariness was not his problem. The journey from London was long and there was nothing he could do to change it. She had not fallen ill or died along the way, he had done his duty.

He had been given the option of leaving her behind at court where she would be sure of royal protection, but he insisted upon having her with him and based it upon personal need. In truth, he would not leave her behind to become Lackland's mistress. She was only his and he wanted to keep her as such. Moreover, he could not bring himself to allow her to be thrown to the great wolf: he had given his word that he would protect her as long as she obeyed and honoured him. He hoped that his word was still good.

Guy could have left her in that chair: what did it matter to him if she awoke stiff necked and sore? He was still very angry with her after their argument, after she had reduced him to ask for what he wanted. He turned to leave, but the sound of a heavy sigh from his wife's breast called him back with a stab conscience. Conscience? Did he still have one after all that had happened? With an inward grumble, Guy scooped her frame into his arms and carried her up the oak staircase.

He saw her carefully deposited on the bed and went to open the window a little wider to let the breeze come in. When he turned back and saw her sleeping on the bed, his heart stopped. She was in Marian's place! It was Marian he had intended to bring to this room, to this bed. It was Marian he had meant to be Lady of Locksley, now her place was filled by another.

Guy's brow knit together darkly as he watched his wife. The presence of another seemed to make Marian's absence that much more poignant. How could this have happened? How could he have been so blind? How could everything have gone so wrong?

He left the room and ran down the stairs, barely seeing Thornton as he passed him in the hall.

"Have my horse saddled," he ordered, "I am going to Nottingham. See that my lady is not disturbed."


	7. The Devil's Deal

Chapter Six  
The Devil's Deal

Vasey, the Sheriff of Nottingham spent the day in his hall, sitting in his chair with a tattered cap clenched in his hands. The cap had been new at daybreak, but the sheriff had passed the hours in wringing it with insatiable frustration. Hood was more meddlesome than he had ever been, Prince John had "requested" a greater tribute, and he had taxed the peasants down to the clothes on their back and he would have taken them as well, useless rags that they were, if he thought there was a chance of gaining some coin from them.

For the first time since coming to Nottingham, the Sheriff was truly out of straws. He wracked his brain, but there was nothing. Even he knew that he could not take from peasants what they did not have. Dead peasants were even more worthless than living peasants because they could not pay taxes –Or could they?

The corners of Vasey's mouth began to curl upward revealing a black, crooked smile that was lacking a front tooth as an idea struck him. The idiotic sheep yearned for death; they believed that there was a God or something of the sort that waited to welcome them into His paradise. The catch was, in order for a Holy Roman God to welcome them into His Catholic heaven, they must be buried on consecrated ground. For the first time in his six and fifty years, Vasey had actually found good use for the Dogma shoved down his throat in childhood.

No sooner had Vasey's new-found humour brought him out of his chair (his fiendish smile growing brighter by the second as he did) than a breathless soldier appeared at the door.

"My lord!"

"What is it?" the sheriff bellowed, his temper sparked at the annoyance of being distracted from his genius planning.

The guard flinched and shrunk back at the sight of his master's temper. The sheriff had been itching to string someone up for months and he did not want to be the one to satiate that. Still, he summoned up his courage and answered bravely.

"A royal entourage approaches, my lord," he babbled out as best he could.

Vasey bounded up the steps leading to the doorway so quickly the soldier could not react before he found his collar held tightly in both of the sheriff's fists and he was brought face to face with a bulging-eyed and very red lord.

"Prince John?" Vasey demanded.

The guard suddenly could not find his voice at all.

"Not exactly," he managed to stutter out.

* * *

Robin watched from the shadows. He used be afraid of them as a small boy, even when he was a youth, he could not help but attempt to avoid them. It was Marian who once told him that a man need never fear the dark, not when they were filled with light. After that day, he was never again afraid of the shadows. He sat in them with a smile, thinking that light would always pierce through the darkness: that darkness was, in fact hiding from the light and by entering the shadows he defeated the darkness because he brought light to it. He did not believe darkness could exist when Marian was by his side.

But Marian was no longer by his side and Robin no longer stood in the shadows: he was consumed by them. They did not simply fall over him and wash off as they did in former times, they welcomed him, they clung to him, they fed him, and they fed off of him as though they were two leeches joined together.

"Master?" Much's voice pulled Robin back to reality. "Master, you are not yourself," he said quietly.

"No, I am not, Much," Robin conceded, placing his hand on his former-servant's shoulder and giving it a grateful, albeit half-hearted squeeze, "but I will be very soon."

Robin's clear eyes darkened at the sight of Gisborne riding through the streets of Nottingham, his small entourage causing the crowds to part for him as he proceeded. He sat straighter in the saddle than he did at Locksley, probably because he had gotten some rest in the hours that had passed. His cold eyes were darker than they had ever been and Robin could not help but think of the lady Gisborne left at Locksley. How could she protect him? Did she not know who he was?

* * *

Lady Gisborne awoke slowly, carefully taking in her surroundings. She recognised the bedchamber as her husband's from the brief view she had of it during their quarrel that morning, but how she had come to be sleeping there was a mystery. She last remembered blinking her eyes in the hall down stairs. She finally surmised that her lord or Thornton must have arranged for her to be brought to this room.

The sun had been bright when she fell asleep, but it had fallen to the west now, though it would still be several hours before sunset. She must have been asleep for nearly three hours and the dull ache behind her forehead made her think that she could sleep a little longer. She had never been so tired in all of her life, but she could not remember making a journey as long as this before. Finally, she pulled herself to a sitting position and listened to the house for signs of life. She could hear words being spoken and people going to and thro in the courtyard outside, but the house was still.

Where was Guy?

Rosalie climbed out of the bed and began to walk toward the door when she caught her reflection in the glass that hung on the wall. She stopped at the sight of the dishevelled girl with wild hair and red eyes. She wondered if it was from crying or from weariness. Had Guy seen her looking like this? Whatever would he think?

After their argument, the last thing she wanted was for him to have evidence of her weakness. She would obey him, she had no choice, but she would not let him see her bleed. She was an Angevin, the cousin of Richard Lionheart, and she would keep her dignity no matter how Guy bellowed and stormed. She hated herself for not being able to answer him when he demanded to know what more she wanted, she hated that she had given him the power to dismiss her like an ungrateful child. The memory of the look in his eyes at that moment caused tears to spring up again and she quickly fought them back, closing her eyes against the sting and swallowing down the lump in her throat. She did her best to steel her nerves, but she felt as though by swallowing her emotions she had allowed them to enter her soul and she could feel them begin to rage inside of her, threatening to destroy her.

Rosalie quickly bathed her eyes and arranged her hair back into its proper order until she was satisfied that the reflection before was every bit the lady of the manor, every bit a noblewoman, and, taking an extra breath for courage, she quit the chamber.

In the hall, Lady Gisborne found a few serving girls bustling about with cleaning in honour of their master and new mistress' return. They stopped in their tracks and respectfully curtsied, welcoming her to Locksley and offering their services as they did in a stumbling procession of words. Rosalie gave a wan smile and thanked them quietly.

"Where is Lord Locksley?" she inquired, causing the girls to look to one another pale-faced.

They were saved from having to speak about their master's whereabouts by the immergence of Thornton from the kitchens.

"Thornton," Rosalie redirected her question to the steward, "where is Sir Guy?"

"Sir Guy has gone to Nottingham, my lady," Thornton replied.

Rosalie was surprised at this. She had thought when he went to confront the sheriff he would take her with him to introduce her as his wife, not leave her alone at the manor. In a way, she thought she should be relieved at not being dragged from her bed for a tedious call upon another grasping politician, but she knew she had only evaded the inconvenience for now.

"Did he say when he would return?" she asked.

"No, my lady," answered the steward before he cleared his throat and moved on to other matters. "Now that you are awake-"

"Is there a priest in the village?"

* * *

Tuck hid in the thicket, watching guards bustle about Locksley Manor. The majority of them had left for the forest and Little John and Allan had gone to track them. They knew Sherwood far better than Tuck, who still found the forest to be a great and wonderful mystery. Tuck was better off watching the manor and learning more about this new bride of Gisborne's. A moor, he had travelled from Jerusalem through Europe. He took Holy Orders and entered a monastery in France where he learned languages, astrology, and history. He knew of every royal family in Eastern Europe.

Anjou belonged to Richard, as it had belonged to his father before him. Only a member of his family would bear the name and if Guy had married an Anjou that made him a member of the royal family: a cousin, a nephew perhaps, to the king. This was getting tricky: before Gisborne was only the lackey to a rogue sheriff, if he was a member of Richard's family, it meant that he had risen above Vasey. But why come back to Nottingham? Why not remain in London and ingratiate himself with Prince John? Gisborne was no fool: he knew the importance of favour and the best way to keep the prince's favour was to stay near him or else follow his every command. That was it: Gisborne was ordered to Nottingham, but for what purpose?

Tuck straightened when he saw the manor door open and Lady Gisborne immerge, her head covered by a lace veil. The house steward was behind her, entreating her about something, but she waved him off with a white hand and a tired face before setting off toward the village unprotected.

"What have we here?" Tuck mused to himself.

He looked around him to see if he was being watched before drawing his hood over his head and immerging from his hiding place to follow after her at a safe distance. She walked swiftly, which he did not anticipate and he found himself having to move more quickly to keep her in his sights. Villagers stopped to stare at her as she passed them and she gave a few of them shy smiles as she went, betraying her youth that had previously been disguised by her stern, pale expression.

She stopped at the church and Tuck quickly ducked behind the nearest hut, carefully peering at her around the corner. She looked around cautiously, as though she felt herself being watched, then she gathered her skirts in her hands and entered the chapel.

Tuck smiled inwardly: this could not be more perfect if he had planned it.

* * *

Guy sat proudly upon his horse, carefully keeping his schooled face straight ahead, but mentally making sure that his shield was very visible: his shield that bore the Anjou crest, letting the world know who he now was, letting the sheriff, whom he knew would be watching, know exactly who it was he now dealt with. He smirked as he imagined Vasey's reaction at seeing him, not only alive and well, but very much in Prince John's favour.

He had waited for this moment and now that it arrived, he intended to relish it. There was nothing to stand in his way now: power beyond his imagination awaited him, all he needed was Hood's head and that would be easy to come by without a blundering sheriff's interference. Gisborne would rise and flourish under the prince and Vasey would soon put the noose around his own neck with his failures.

The portcullis of the castle was raised and Guy entered through the gate, giving only a calm look to his former employer where he stood on the steps. He could not keep the gleam out of his eye at Vasey badly disguised discomfort, but he trained his face not to alter in expression. The game had begun.

Guy dismounted and tossed the reins to the waiting stable-hand. For a moment, he merely stood there staring up at Vasey with a satisfied smirk playing at his mouth. For the first time in his life, Guy the upper-hand where the sheriff was concerned. He would never be dependent upon him again. Vasey could never control him, never own him again.

"Sir Guy," Vasey greeted, realising that his former Master at Arms had not returned to resume his post. "To what do I owe this honour?"

Guy climbed the steps with a swagger, his blue eyes gleaming.

"I come with a message from my cousin, Prince John," he replied, delighting in the way the sheriff's eyes bulged at his words. "He wants his tribute."

* * *

Rosalie entered the chapel and looked for a basin of holy water, but found none. It was the first time in her life that she had entered a church without cleansing herself and she felt her stomach tighten with a stab of guilt. Was God abandoning her here? Her eyes scanned the chapel, expecting to find the priest, but it was deserted, save for the Crucifix and the simple altar at the front.

She made her way down the aisle of benches and genuflected before the image piously. The face on the cross was her only true friend in this world, she realised that long ago. It had always been such a mystery to her how God could take the form of a man, how God could be humble and merciful in such a way. She had never met a man of humility, though she believed firmly that her cousin, Richard, was merciful and just.

Rosalie closed her eyes and knelt down to recite the Lord's Prayer, her voice shaking as she struggled to keep her focus upon her Lord God and not her Lord Husband and his anger. Her throat tightened so that she could scarcely speak as she fought to keep from shaking with the sobs that demanded control over her body.

Tuck heard a muffled sound echo from where she knelt and saw a small hand move to cover her mouth as her frame folded over the altar. He should have felt guilty for how quickly he acted, he should hate himself for taking advantage of this moment, but he did not. He believed himself to be in the right and he felt certain that God, in His Omniscience, would forgive and bless his actions.

He quickly entered the confessional, making certain that he had made enough noise to alert the lady of his presence. His heart did not race, despite the rapidity of his actions and his breath did not catch, despite the secrecy of his mission. He sat coolly and calmly, waiting for the penitent to come for confession.

* * *

Robin glared at the closed gates of Nottingham Castle as though his eyes might sear holes through the thick oak. If Gisborne had married royalty, then what was he doing back in Nottingham? Why treat with the sheriff now? Vasey had sent Gisborne to his death and, if he knew anything, it was that Guy of Gisborne did not readily forgive.

He had to know what was happening inside those stone walls, what they were scheming. Peace seemed unimaginable, despite Gisborne's years of loyalty. Besides, Robin had worked hard to make sure that Vasey proved incompetent and useless to the prince. It was only a matter of time before the sheriff would be relieved of his post.

Robin's spine stiffened: what if Gisborne was the new sheriff? He had been in London, he had clearly found Lackland's favour, it was more than probable, but far from desirable. Being the Sheriff of Nottingham would make Gisborne untouchable even to Robin and Robin had his own plans for him. This was proving to be very tricky.

"Much," Robin addressed his companion. "We need to get in."

"Oh…" Much sighed, catching the mischievous gleam in his master's eye. "Of course we do."

* * *

"I gather that congratulations are in order then, Gisborne," the sheriff mused, feigning to be good-natured. "Is she pretty?"

Guy smirked, thinking that Rosalie's beauty or lack of had no bearing on anything. She was Prince John's cousin and through her Guy had become very rich and powerful. He would have bedded Vasey's twin for this opportunity, but the fact that his wife was beautiful suddenly made this victory that much sweeter.

"She is fair enough," he answered, knowing that Vasey would have preferred his father-in-law to his bride. "She has no brothers, I will inherit a vast portion of land and wealth when her father dies."

"And she is the prince's cousin to boot," Vasey saluted him with his goblet. "You have done very well for yourself. What is her name?"

"Rosalie Anjou," Guy replied casually.

Vasey's eyes bulged at the name. Guy had married Lionheart's favourite cousin, but it was clear he was unaware of that fact. It was once rumoured that Richard might have chosen Rosalie for his queen, had Eleanor not insisted on Berengaria and her money. Rosalie was also well-known to be devoted to Richard: things were suddenly starting to look up. After all, blood was thicker than water and women seemed to go weak-at-the-knees for the hero before the blackguard and Guy was a blackguard.

"You have done very well," the sheriff repeated with a smile. "So, what brings you back to Nottingham?"

"I come in service to my family," Guy replied, not bothering to hide his sneer or the gloating pride in his eyes. "My cousin, King Richard is being held for ransom by Leopold of Austria. The taxes must be raised in order that his ransom might be met. Therefore your tribute, which, might I add, the prince still awaits, has been doubled. This is done for the good of the nation, of course."

"Of course," Vasey pasted on a small smile. "So, Prince John sent his cousin to collect taxes for him." He cast a sidelong glance it his former Master of Arms to ascertain whether his arrow had hit its target.

Guy only sneered back at him.

"No, you are to raise the taxes and a representative will be arrive at the end of the month to make sure that they are safely transported to London," he explained condescendingly. "My mission is slightly more delicate."

Guy gave a look that said he would speak no more on the subject, but Vasey knew Gisborne and the prince too well not to guess.

"Hood," Vasey chuckled. "Gisborne, you will fail as you have a thousand times before."

"No," Guy retorted calmly. "I will not fail because I will not be hindered by foolish and incompetent meddlers. I have one goal only: to kill Robin Hood. He is not my pet. I am not interested in a slow painful death or an example. The prince has provided me with men, money, necessities… I have no need of you or anyone else."

There was a long silence between the two men, before Guy asked, "So have you thought of how you will raise the money?"

The sheriff smiled. "I have one or two ideas."

* * *

Rosalie knelt behind the screen and crossed herself reverently. Tuck watched as the light fell through the pattern of wood that divided them and illuminated her tear-stained face. Her eyes were wet from weeping and her lips were drawn and pale, but in her own way she possessed a look that he wished he could paint to capture for ever. She reminded him of a saint, though he could not think of which one.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned," she whispered, "my last confession was one month ago."

"Speak, my child," Tuck prompted.

"Father, my husband," she swallowed in vain to try to rid her throat of the knot that had taken residence there. Finally, she felt it sink and grow heavy within her breast. "I have married a man I do not know, a man I do not love."

Rosalie stopped, at a loss for words. How could she continue? Many a woman shared her fate, why should she not bear it silently. What sin had Guy committed that she knew of? He was hard, yes, but a man had to be in this world. Why did everything feel so wrong?

"Has he sinned against you, daughter?" the low voice of the priest asked, "Or have you sinned against him?"

"No!" Rosalie answered instantly then thought again. "Yes… On both accounts"

"Go on, child."

Rosalie almost began to tell him of Guy's character, of his coldness, his anger, but she could not bring herself to accuse him in a House of God when her own heart carried its share of blame. She decided to speak of her own sins first.

"Today a man tried to kill my husband," she began. "I think he was a hunter, he hid in the woods, but I saw him. I pulled my lord out of his aim, but I never said a word. I let him go."

_Robin,_ Tuck thought, silently thanking God that Rosalie had intervened.

"Why did you say nothing?" Tuck pried, his curiosity piqued.

"Because… Because when I looked into his eyes, I saw such a deep emptiness: I saw a man who had lost everything." Rosalie replied as the stranger's blue eyes reappeared in her mind. "I saw my husband in his eyes and I pitied him."

Tuck heard the tenderness in her voice and knew enough of a woman's heart to realise the vulnerability of an unloved wife.

"Did you desire him?" Tuck questioned, his mind functioning as a priest and not as one of Hood's men.

Rosalie started at the idea. She only saw the man from a distance, her intention had been to protect her husband and prevent bloodshed. She was unhappy, she was wilful, but she did not believe herself to be faithless, not even to Guy.

"I did not, father," she replied.

"But your husband is cruel to you," Tuck noted, stating it more as a fact than as a question based upon his knowledge of Gisborne. He was grateful that his confessor did not note his error.

"Sir Guy is a cold man," Rosalie said, "but he has never harmed me. He neither cruel to me, nor is he kind. He frightens me in one moment, and in the next I feel myself pitying him. He has lost everything and no matter how much he gains, he cannot find peace."

"Why do you think your husband has brought you to Nottingham?" Tuck asked, finally gaining the window of access he had been searching for.

"Prince John has ordered him to kill the outlaw Robin Hood," Rosalie answered incredulously. "King Richard is being held for ransom at 150,000 marks by Leopold of Austria. My husband has come to ensure that Hood cannot steal the money being raised to meet it."

Tuck smiled: she had told him everything he needed to know.

"Father?" asked Rosalie, her voice tired and worn. "What should I do?"

The friar turned to peer at the lady through the screen. Her eyes were so desperate, so hopeful. She saw good in her husband, for whatever reason. In his confessions, Allan had once told Tuck that Marian, Robin's wife, saw the same. Gisborne had hidden the fact that Marian was the Night Watchman, and he had stayed to defend Nottingham against an army. This knowledge sparked an idea.

"Go home to your husband," Tuck replied, once again thinking and acting as a priest, "show him kindness, even when he is unkind, just as Our Lord commands us. Be patient, my child, these things reveal themselves only in God's time. Go in peace, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Tuck waited until he knew Lady Gisborne had left the church before he went to the door and watched her figure as she made her way to back to the manor. Once again, he wondered where the boundaries lay between his duties to God and his duties to his country: whether he was a soldier or a priest. Things were getting trickier than he thought: Prince John would certainly raise the taxes on the pretense of getting his brother's ransom, but a simpleton could easily guess that is not what would become of the money.

"What is the devil's deal?" Tuck muttered.


	8. Angels and Demons

Chapter Seven  
Angels and Demons

It was just after sunset when the rest of the outlaws returned to the camp. Tuck was already there, waiting beside a fire with hot food for the weary men. Allan and Little John made it back first, reporting that they had lost Gisborne's men and could not tell what they had been up to, beyond scouting the forest. The friar nodded as though he had been expecting as much and gave them each a plate of rabbit and vegetables.

"Not quite as good as Much's cooking," Allan remarked with a grin, "but you'll do."

Tuck returned him with a good-humoured, but absent smile which quickly faded when he saw the devil they had spoken of enter the camp, followed by a very dark, very silent, and very frightening Robin of Locksley.

"I take it things didn't go so well for you either, then," Allan observed, addressing Robin.

It was instantly clear that the leader was in no mood to talk, so it was Much who answered.

"No, it did not go well at all, Allan," he fumed, his cheeks turning a shade to rival his ruddy hair. "Thanks to you, we have no means of getting into the castle! We do not know what the sheriff and Gisborne are planning and-"

"Much!"

The would-be Lord of Bonchurch turned and stared at his former master. That was the first sound Robin had made since they left Nottingham, but rather than upbraid anyone for their treacheries or for their blame-laying, he looked away from the gang as though he still wished to keep the silence.

Allan looked a little paler and his food suddenly lost all flavour at the reminder of the past year. He had betrayed them all, Robin especially. Gisborne bought him with his life and some silver and in return, Allan gave the sheriff all of their secrets, save the camp and save Marian. He never told a soul that Marian was Hood's spy, much less that she was the Night Watchman: he kept that a secret until the very end, but that still had not saved her. He knew Robin blamed him a little, he must. Jesu knew he blamed himself. He also he knew he could never truly forgive himself.

"Robin," Tuck said, breaking the silence with his rich baritone, "I know why Gisborne has come back."

Robin looked at Tuck, but his eyes were distant as his mind struggled to evaluate the situation.

"King Richard is being held for ransom by Leopold of Austria," Tuck announced to the dismay of his companions. "Prince John has declared that he will raise the money for his release. He ordered Gisborne back here to keep you from stealing the money. Robin, Gisborne has come back to kill you."

For the first time since hearing of his enemy's return, Robin's lips curled into a smirk.

"Well, we shall just see about that," he returned, at last taking his bow and quiver from his shoulder and placing them with his few personal belongings at the camp. "How did you find all this out?"

Tuck swallowed hard. In passing this information to others, he was wilfully violating the Sacrament of Confession, but then that had been his plan all along. Had he really expected his companions to take him at his word and not question the source of this knowledge? He silently asked God to forgive him, to understand that it was for the greater good, while a part of him wondered whom he was trying hardest to convince.

"Lady Gisborne went to confession today," he answered at last. "I was the only priest at the church."

Much's eyes became as wide as saucers in the ever-fading light.

"You broke the Sacrament of Confession!" he gasped, stammering over his words in his shock.

"Much…" Robin's voice was calm and silencing. He surveyed the others, making sure that he had their attention turned to the important details, not the manner in which they had been acquired. "What we can be absolutely sure of is that Prince John is certainly not going to spend a farthing towards the king's ransom. We need to find out what his plans for the gold really are. We also need to find out just how Gisborne plans to kill me. He knows we have friends in the villages; so, for the time being, we keep away. We cannot trust anyone right now and we cannot risk putting the villagers in danger on our account. I am going to Locksley tonight, to see what I can find out."

"Robin…" Little John said thickly, his eyes echoing his vocal protest. "That idea is a bad one."

"I hardly intend to let a tiny death warrant keep me from my own house," Hood returned with a grin.

"Not a chance, mate," Allan piped up, standing so that he was looking his leader in the eye. "It's too dangerous, especially now."

"If not me, then who?" Robin demanded, his voice betraying his frustration at having his word challenged.

"I'll go," A' Dale replied, "I worked there long enough: I know the house and grounds."

"And if Gisborne captures you again?" Robin challenged, his eyes burning through Allan.

The former Judas looked as though he had been kicked in the ribs. He did not expect the others to take him back into their embrace instantly, but it had been eight months since the Holy Land. He thought, at least, he might have earned some trust after risking his neck for them. He hoped that they would try to remember the old days. Would he spend the rest of his life paying for one mistake?

"Robin," Allan finally said, looking straight into the archer's eyes. "Look I know I messed up, but I came back. I saved you all and I swear before God Almighty that I will let Gisborne kill me before I ever betray you again. I don't how else to prove to you that I am with you, Robin Hood."

Robin looked at his feet, leaving Allan to stare in wonderment, to look to his friends for support. Little John turned away and Much avoided his gaze with a huff and a scurry like a flustered hen. Only Tuck looked him in the eye. Seeing that his petition for absolution had been denied, Allan turned away, forcing himself to give a sardonic smirk at his own foolishness.

"If I were you, Allan," rang Robin's clear voice as the sound of footsteps in the dirt brought him nearer until a hand rested on his shoulder, "I would wait until it the moon sets. It has a few hours yet."

Allan turned and faced his leader, his friend: Robin was smiling.

* * *

The first stars had begun to appear and the full, August moon shone brightly over the thatched house-tops of Locksley when its lord returned to the manor. Fuel for light was expensive and many villagers had gone to their beds for a night's repose from the day's work. Even if they were awake, the moon was bright enough for accustomed eyes to sit up and talk upon their doorsteps, though all chatter was silenced at the sight of the black knight on his black horse.

Guy did not fail to notice the light burning in the windows at Locksley Manor. It occurred to him that he should feel that he was coming home. Locksley was his in title, after all, and he had been away from it for nearly a year, but he never truly felt that it belonged to him. For Guy, Locksley was only a trapping he had wrested from Hood. He almost laughed at how badly he had fought for it and now it meant nothing to him.

As expected, Thornton was waiting at the door to greet him and inform him that dinner had been prepared. Guy had no appetite and no interest in anything except a bottle of wine. He did not eat nor sleep, not since Marian… It had amazed him that he could not escape her memory in London where there was nothing to remind him of her; therefore, it did not surprise him that he expected to see her at every corner now that he had returned to the shire.

But it was not Marian that met him in the hall, but Rosalie who sat at the long table with a plate of cold mutton and cheese and a pitcher of mead. He stopped upon seeing her, half wanting to continue up the stairs without speaking, but in his surprise he let her dark eyes arrest him.

"You have come home, my lord," she greeted, trying to smile. When he did not respond, she gestured to the meal that waited for him.

He sighed and removed his gloves as he sauntered to the table and took a seat at the head of it while she busied herself with filling his tankard and moving the basket of bread closer within his reach. Guy did not care for mead: it was too sweet, but he was thirsty from the ride and did not complain. What did it matter what Rosalie served him as long as his needs were met?

"Forgive me, Sir Guy," said Thornton, causing lord and lady to regard him. "Do you have further need of me?"

"If I do, I shall send my wife to fetch you," Guy replied, smiling as he felt her eyes stare at him in shock. In all honesty, he spoke in jest, hoping to ruffle her feathers and break the serenity she shrouded herself in, but he would not let her know it.

"Very well, my lord," Thornton replied, bowing at the shoulders, "my lady."

With that the steward took his leave and husband and wife were left alone.

"Is this your way of apologising?" Guy asked, his brow arching sardonically.

Rosalie gave a weak smile and her husband could not tell if it was from weariness or from crying, though he cared little either way.

"It is my way of making peace," she replied.

Guy let out a snort and set his goblet upon the table with a thud and sat back in his chair. He glowered at his wife, but she did not whither under his gaze; she met it with eyes that were no longer ablaze, but sincere and tired.

"Is the meal not to your liking?" Rosalie inquired, at a loss for anything else to say.

It occurred to Guy that he would be within his rights to insist upon particular dishes, to order her about at his pleasure, and a part of him wanted to test her patience and provoke her to the anger she was so prone to of late, but he could not think of a favourite dish or a preference as to how his house was kept, as long as it was silent when he was home. He had spent the better part of the day playing cat-and-mouse with Vasey and he did not want to argue with his wife any longer.

"I am a man of simple taste," he answered. "If you put it before me, I will eat it. In future, though, I do prefer something stronger than mead."

"I can go to the kitchen," she said, standing to that end when Guy's hand caught her wrist to stay her.

"There is no need," he stated, causing her to sit again.

Guy seldom touched his wife outside of the confines of the bed curtains. He abhorred human contact, but hers felt as though it burned. Tonight was the first time it felt natural to have his skin touch hers. He did not give a second thought to his actions and dug into his mutton.

"Did your meeting with the sheriff go as you intended it to?" she inquired.

"And what do you know of my intentions?" he growled.

Rosalie blanched a little, but continued on determinedly.

"Surely you had some idea of how you wanted the conversation to go," she insisted. "I would have."

Guy stilled the beast within and reminded himself that Rosalie was not Marian: she was not in league with his enemies, and she was merely a convent-raised girl with no understanding of the real world beyond her fantasies and ideals. She was trying to be a good wife; he was impressed, but told himself that it would only be a matter of time before she opened her eyes to what he really was and abandoned her quest.

"Yes," he replied, "the meeting went according to plan."

"You hate him," she observed.

Guy scowled at her and Rosalie was silenced. She had clearly struck a vein and she did not want to anger him, not tonight. She was determined to follow the priest's instructions, if only to ease her own conscience. At least no one could say that she did not try.

There was a long silence between them while Rosalie tried to find a way to break it and Guy carefully replayed his plans for the next day. Soon, very soon, Hood's life would be in his hands. It would be Hood at the sword-point, not Marian. Perhaps, when this was over, she would stop haunting his dreams. Perhaps he did not want her to.

"My lord," Rosalie sounded concerned and tentative as she sought to retrieve him from his reverie.

"I think it is time for bed, Lady Gisborne," he staved off her inquiries with a fiendish smirk.

Rosalie's eyes grew wide when they caught the wolfish gleam behind his. Three years ago, Guy would have laughed outright at her. Anyone would think by her maidenly blushes that she was still an ignorant virgin, but Guy was three years older and despite his calculated teasing, his mind was on greater things than the needs of the flesh. If Rosalie blushed, it was because she was inexperienced and pious and something deep inside him respected that. His mind thought only of getting an heir and getting out of her bed as soon as possible. Mocking her did not fall in line with his plans. Maybe Vasey was right. Maybe Marian had made him soft.

"As you wish, my lord," Rosalie replied at length.

She stood and gave him a polite curtsey before heading up the stairs to the bedroom, leaving Guy to finish his meal in solitude while she undressed.

* * *

Allan ducked behind the nearest door when he heard the sound of foot steps as they entered the narrow hallway. He held his breath as the steps drew nearer, but allowed his heart to resume beating when it was obvious that it was not Gisborne. His steps were heavier and more determined, these footsteps belonged to a woman, and because the servants had retired for the evening he assumed it was the new Lady Gisborne.

When the steps passed his hiding place and he heard the door to the master's chamber open and close again, he cautiously eased the door he hid behind open and peered into the hallway to be sure it was empty. Seeing no one, he stepped into the passage way and headed for Gisborne's store room. He kept his most valuable possessions, money and deeds, close to him, in a room with no windows. If Gisborne had any written orders, any treaties, anything that Robin could use against him in a trial, it would be in that room.

As he remembered, Gisborne kept a heavy lock upon the door, but Allan knew a thing or two about locks and had come equipped with a pin. He tried to keep a look over his shoulder, in case someone came along, but the lock was trickier than he anticipated and demanded his attention.

"Bloody hell…" he hissed as his attempts were continually foiled.

"Perhaps it would help if you had this," taunted a cold voice behind him.

Allan spun around to see Guy standing coolly in the corridor and holding the key to the lock in his hand for Allan to see.

Unwilling to wait around for Gisborne to run him through, Allan drew his sword.

"Put it up," Gisborne spat, "my wife is in the next room."

"Since when did you turn family-man?" Allan challenged dubiously.

"It's not you I want, Allan" Guy retorted, "I want Hood, I want his head."

Allan shook his head, "I'm not your boy anymore, Gisborne. I'm not going to turn my back on my friends again."

"You are a turn-coat, Allan," Gisborne replied coolly. "You will always be a turn-coat, following whichever master will feed your greedy belly. Thankfully, I won't have you on my pay. I know you too well. You go back to Hood and tell him that I am back in Nottingham, I am here to kill him, and if he wants me he can come out and face me; otherwise, I will hunt him down like the dog he is."

Allan smirked. He almost shot back that Robin already knew his plans, but he thought better of it. He learned his lesson from losing Marian and kept himself in check. If he lost his tongue, Guy would suspect there was a leak in his camp, worst of all he did not trust women and Allan did not want to put an innocent woman in Guy's path when she had been taken advantage of.

"Care to let me in how you mean to do it?" he inquired defiantly.

Guy gave one of his old, sinister smiles.

"If Hood is as clever as he thinks he is, he'll figure it out," he said calmly. "Now get out of my house before I change my mind."

* * *

Robin stood alone, just outside the camp on the pretence of waiting for Allan, but everyone knew he really needed to be alone, to think. When Robin was alone, the ache he felt for Marian was strongest and in a world that kept spinning out of control, the ache was becoming all he had left of her. He had watched friends die, he killed men with his own hand in battle, but no horror prepared him for losing someone who was a part of him as she was. He promised her that he would keep fighting and he had, but he could not continue until Gisborne was dead.

The Hero of Sherwood stifled a sigh when he felt Friar Tuck come up beside him and join him in his vigil. Tuck knew he wanted to be alone and why, but he insisted upon joining him regardless of his feelings. Robin was surprised at this Warrior Priest who was no respecter of persons. Even now, Robin was amazed that the newest member of his gang had gone so far as to break even his vows to the Church.

"So what horrors have Gisborne visited upon the Lady of Locksley?" Robin asked dryly.

Tuck smiled, "That would be a betrayal of trust."

"Really?" Robin returned incredulously. "Well, by all means, let us not break anything sacred."

"I would think you ought to be the last person to judge my methods," Tuck retorted.

Robin was silenced by that. His only reason for pursuing this vein was for an excuse to argue with someone, anyone.

"What is she like?" he asked at last, avoiding Tuck's eye. The other man knew well enough whom he spoke of.

"She is young, beautiful, and lonely," Tuck replied. "Hardly a woman to suit your taste," he added with a chuckle.

"She cannot love him," Robin hissed. "She saw me today. I was hiding in the woods, I was a hundred yards away from her and she saw me. No one has ever done that, except…"

"She has been dead for the better part of a year, Robin," Tuck said gently.

"Has she? I feel as though it has been only days," Robin replied thickly, sitting at the base of a tree and resting his head in his palms.

"Robin," Tuck sighed, reaching out to touch his companion's shoulder.

"Tuck, please, leave me be," he snapped. "I know you mean well, but please, just go."

The priest stared darkly at Robin's silhouette in the dim light, more than a little affronted by the rejection of his friendship, but deep inside he understood. Robin was not the only man who had faced heartbreak. It would take time to heal and Tuck knew that time would prove him right, so he stood and left Robin to his own thoughts.

Alone at last, Robin closed his eyes and tried to picture Gisborne at the end of his sword, he tried to imagine himself running a blade through him just as he had done to Marian, but when he did, he saw dark eyes staring at him. He tried to shut them out and the eyes turned blue.


	9. The Living Dead

Chapter Eight  
The Living Dead

Guy found Rosalie already waiting in his bed with her back to the door. She did not turn to face him and he could hear the soft murmur of snatches from her prayers as they passed him by on their way to Heaven. He undressed a little slower than was his wont to allow her time to finish. He had no use for God for he knew that God had no use for a son of the devil such as he was. He did not wait for salvation; he was already damned. Nonetheless, he did not doubt his sainted wife was dearly beloved by the Almighty and hoped perhaps her innocence would preserve his children from his iniquity.

When the sound of whispers was silenced, Guy sat down on the vacant side of the bed, closest to the door, and reached out to lay his hand on her shoulder. He did what he could to keep this deed fundamental for both their sakes and chaste for hers. He would not corrupt her with base actions when he could not make love to her nor show her the affection he knew she craved.

She rolled onto her back and looked up at him calmly, bravely hiding her hesitation. They did not speak in such moments; they seldom spoke as it was, and when they were alone Rosalie was too timid to speak and Guy had naught to say. The act of coupling had never been easy for them. Her inexperience left her unprepared for him when he entered her and he could not bring himself to touch her more than was absolutely necessary. He could not bring himself to caress and kiss her to the feverish and desirous state a woman must be in. To give her anything more than bitter civility would be a lie and he already lived with too many sins.

Tonight, he looked down at her and thought of how he had dreamed of bringing Marian to this bed. He thought of how he longed to hold her again, just once, and the image before him was replaced with the ghost of the one he lost, stilling his breath in his lungs.

Rosalie reached up and placed her hand upon the swell of his bicep, trying to welcome his touch, willing herself to submit to her husband in accordance with holy law, in keeping with the priest's instructions. Guy stiffened and took in a quick breath as Rosalie's face came into view and Marian disappeared.

He promised himself he would make an effort to more careful tonight. He had not touched Rosalie since they left London and her body would be unaccustomed to his. In addition to the memory of Marian at the point of his blade in his mind, he did not need the echo of Rosalie's quiet gasps of pain in his ears.

He took the hand on his arm and held it, rubbing small circles in her palm with his thumb. He studied her face as she tried to force herself to relax, to give herself to this man who possessed her and used her as a brood mare. He bitterly wondered if she had finally learnt that love did not exist and, even if it did, she would never find it in her husband.

His free hand he rested on her stomach, wishing he could impregnate her by the simple action. He could feel her muscles ripple with her breath and watched the rise and fall of her breast. It took very little for her to bring him to the state required for union. He did not need to be out of his head with desire; in fact, it was best if he kept his body in check.

Rosalie took in a sharp breath as his hand glided up her body to cup her small breast and he froze, waiting for a reaction. Her eyes shut tightly and he was grateful to be free of them, but, no matter how he tried, he could not ignore the tear that escaped the corner of one eye and made its way down her temple into her hair. He bent his head to kiss that temple, once then twice. He could feel her pulse against his lips and knew this tender spot afforded her some pleasure, though the act was cold on his part.

Guy slid under the covers beside her and reached down to gather the hem of her shift and brought it up past her knees, then her thighs. Rosalie opened her eyes so quickly it caught him off guard as he met her flushed face.

"I am sorry," she blurted out, her eyes filled with sincerity and the smallest trace of tears. "I am sorry for being a bad wife. Please, my lord... husband, tell me how to please you."

If Guy were a better man, a man with a heart, he might have found the strength to tell her that it was he who had failed as a husband, that he was cheating her because he was too weak and too cold to give her the tiniest scrap of affection. He was in love with a ghost and he made Rosalie pay for that every time he touched her. But Guy was not a better man and whatever was left of his heart was numb.

"Hush," echoed a silencing sound from between his teeth as he brought his finger to rest upon her lips. "Close your eyes," he said quietly and she obeyed, this time waiting in anticipation for what he would do to her.

Her hands rested upon his shoulders as he knelt over her and, without her innocent eyes watching, he reached down between them to stroke himself to readiness. She had never seen his manhood; he had not wanted to give her a needless fright. For that same reason, he had never undressed her; he had only felt her softness in the dark.

Tonight, he gently pressed a finger against her, waiting patiently for her flesh to become damp. He entered her unhurriedly and her gasp sounded only surprised, but he stilled nonetheless and waited for her body to adapt to his girth.

There were nights in London when Rosalie greeted Guy with dread upon his return from the training ground. On the first such night she had begged him not to touch her, had told him that she was even then aching from their last coupling. She then looked at him with a pale face, fearful of reprisal, but he left without a word. He did not return to her chamber for two nights and when he did, he willed himself ask if she could endure to lie with him. The meek bride nodded and he took the same care then as he did now.

He wanted an heir, he did not want to harm Rosalie, no matter how little she meant to him. From that night on he was careful to gauge her reactions to his presence and when he saw the tell-tale traces of discomfort or trepidation in her eyes he left her alone.

He moved carefully, but not lovingly. He did not shower her with the kisses he dreamed of giving Marian, he uttered no soft endearments; he did not even touch her beyond the one essential point of union. He never lost himself in primal abandon or passion, he was cold and calculated. Some nights, he concentrated upon a child, a son, hoping it would do the trick, but in truth he was uncertain he wanted one. Why bring a child into the world to inherit his sins?

When Guy had filled Rosalie's womb with his seed, he got up and fetched a cloth to clean himself and his wife. He would not leave her with traces of him, with evidence of their unholy joining upon her body. He was not sure her God would take her back if she came smelling of Satan's servant.

* * *

The moon had set and the night was still. Even the owls and the wolves were silent and to Guy, the very air felt heavy around him as he lay awake in the darkness, listening to it. The sound of Rosalie's breathing beside him slowed and steadied itself and he turned his head upon the pillow to be sure she was asleep. Her back was turned to him, but her form was not as rigid as it was when she lay awake. He carefully slipped out from beneath the blankets and padded across the floor.

Once he had closed the door to his chamber, once he was alone within the dark hallway, he let out of heavy breath and replaced it slowly with one of equal measure, but it did nothing to quiet his spirit. Night had come and he was left alone with his ghosts. He could not close his eyes without seeing Marian's face before him, without seeing the look in her eyes as she stared back at him; the look that pierced his very soul.

"I am in hell," he groaned to the emptiness and with that thought repeating in his mind, he staggered down the stairs to wage his war against the night, against the memories.

In London, Guy remembered killing Marian and that single vision haunted him every moment; but, back in Nottingham, he found that far worse were the memories of better times, of times when he had grown to love her and believed that she cared for him in return. Even the knowledge that every moment, every word was a lie, could not banish those thoughts from his head, much less absolve what he had done. There was no absolution.

Guy paced the floor of the manor's hall and let a strange, mangled sound as he knocked his head between his fists. He could not breathe, he could not think, he could only hate himself as he grew to accept that he would never be free of her.

In the darkness of the room and his own mind, he never saw the white form that crouched on the stairs, watching him from her hiding place.

* * *

The servants of Nottingham Castle were well-accustomed to the sheriff's moods; in fact they could judge them as easily as they read the weather. When things were going poorly for him, he was more than usually cruel and many of them found themselves being beaten or locked in the dungeon for no reason. For this reason, they did their best to avoid him when he was sleeping late, not eating, drinking excessively, and staying up all hours. These were tell-tale signs that things were going very badly for the sheriff and some of them were not sure that they truly loved Robin Hood after all.

However, just as the sun must eventually follow the rain even in the cold, damp Heart of England, the sheriff would eventually be in very good humour. This generally meant he felt secure in his latest plot to capture Robin Hood and it was always foiled by the outlaw; therefore, unfortunately for the servants, periods of good humour were short-lived.

On this, dreary morning, the sheriff awoke early and ordered for his horse to be saddled. He did not thrash the lad who took the message to the stables and he did not threaten to hang any servant unfortunate enough to be standing in the corridors that lead to the courtyard. For the first time in months, he stood tall and proud, and there was a spring in his step. He almost looked fit to start skipping down the hallways.

Yes, the servants whispered amongst themselves, he must have a new plan to raise taxes and kill Robin Hood. And, despite the misery they knew awaited them at the end of the week, they had a strong feeling that whatever his plan may be, they should earnestly pray that he would fail in both.

* * *

Rosalie slept little her first night as Lady of Locksley. She found herself sitting up just before the sunrise, staring out the window at the still, grey world outside. The morning was cool and her thin shift afforded little warmth, but she was too weary and too unwilling to break the stillness by retreating to the warmth of the bed.

Her husband had returned to their chamber only a little while before. He carefully dressed as though he was endeavouring not wake her and left without a word. His quitting the room was soon followed by the sound of his horse galloping away.

It did not surprise her that Guy should be so eager to attend to his duties in the field. He was a man on a mission and if that mission brought Richard safely home, she had no right to complain. It did, however, concern her that her husband seemed eager to keep as much distance between them as possible, that he spent his nights pacing the floor rather than sleeping beside her. In their three months of marriage, Guy had never once spent the night in her bed; he merely coupled with her then left when he thought she was asleep.

Despite what Guy thought, Rosalie never deluded herself that he loved her, but when he left her in the middle of the night after using her so, she could not suppress the feeling that he hated her. In London, she had thought he left her to seek a wench better skilled in meeting his needs, but here at Locksley when he chose to wait up all night she followed him and watched as he battled his demons. She shuddered at the sound of his beast-like cries, but at the same time her young heart went out to him.

A part of her longed to go to him, to soothe his brow and comfort him, but she somehow knew that he would not like to be seen this way. He was drunk and she would not suffer the consequences of his anger when he was in that state. She could not help either of them if he throttled her in his rage.

When the first streaks of sunlight appeared on the eastern horizon, Rosalie could not help but think that it had first kissed Richard, wherever he was, and she earnestly prayed once more for his safe return. Life had not gone the way she planned it, her heart was altering every day, but Richard would always be her cousin and she would never cease praying that she may see his face once more, for England's sake as well as her own.

The people of Locksley were slowly beginning to immerge from their little houses to attend to their crops. Harvest was coming soon and their survival depended upon having enough food to sustain their families after the lord had claimed his share of the crops and the sheriff had exacted his taxes. There would be little work in the winter with little money and little food if they were not prepared and in these troubled times it seemed impossible for any of them to get ahead.

No one saw the hooded figure walk backwards against the traffic that made its way to the fields. It was the magic hour and the changing light made it difficult to focus tired eyes to any moving object, least of all one that did not wish to be noticed. Robin smiled to himself as he glanced around the corner of an untidy hut, ascertaining that he had not been followed or seen. Locksley was crawling with Gisborne's men and it had never been more dangerous for him, or more appealing.

He silently chuckled as he imagined Much's reaction when he realized his master was gone, but justified himself with the simple fact that Gisborne's little army came from London and did not know Robin from the sheriff. The thought was almost tempting.

Robin turned his gaze toward the manor and caught the white figure in the window just before it disappeared into the darkness of the room. Lady Gisborne.

He had to warn her, he had to tell her what she had bound herself to. He had to save her from this fate before she met the same end Marian had. Gisborne was like the plague: everything he touched was eventually destroyed, more often than not by his own hand. Robin would not watch one more innocent person be made victim by Gisborne's disease.

* * *

Little John was awoken from a deep sleep by the sounds of two voices: one was shrill and shouting and the other was low, making hushing noises. He knew them too well not to comprehend what was going on, even in his half-sleeping state. The shrill one was Much who was fussing over something as he always did and the low one was Tuck as he tried to silence and reason with the former. John waited to hear Allan's tenor make a jest or laugh at Much or for Robin to demand some peace in the camp, but neither sound came and John quickly yanked himself into the waking world.

"What is going on?" John demanded, standing and walking toward the squabbling pair. "Where are Robin and Allan?"

"Allan has betrayed us!" Much shouted, "He did not return to the camp last night. Gisborne has captured him and Allan has told him everything. They have probably already captured my master-"

"We do not know that, Much," Tuck interjected. "It is more likely that Robin has gone off on his own."

"That would be like him," John muttered.

* * *

Rosalie spent her morning with Thornton, learning the mode of the house and making the changes she thought necessary. Thornton, though usually obedient in everything, did very little to hide his irritation of having his domain intruded upon after so many years and disputed all of her decisions until she at last was forced to inform him that she was the lady of the house and if he had a quarrel, he should take it up with the master upon his return. She had quickly guessed that the servants preferred not to treat with Sir Guy when at all possible.

Finally, alone and satisfied with the assurance that her orders were being carried out, Rosalie was left to take in her surroundings. Locksley Manor had not had a woman inhabit it since the Lord Locksley's wife had died, she had gathered from Thornton, and it was painfully obvious in the furnishings. There would only be a few weeks left of sunlight before it would be too cold to allow the buildings to be open, but the windows and doors were closed and shuttered allowing no light and no air to circulate. Rosalie immediately ordered that every window in the house be opened to allow the air in, especially in the great hall.

She also ordered that the straw be swept up and removed. The week had proven to be dry, there was no use for it and she found muddy floors preferable to the smell of mildewing hay. She instructed Thornton to have the hands gather cedar wood and make sawdust from it to cover the stone floors of the first level of the house in the winter. The wooden floors upstairs would be laid with furs, pelts, and hand-woven rugs to keep the house warm.

The last thing to deal with was the smell: bad air caused sickness and Guy had made it very clear that he expected Rosalie to bear children in this house. It was summer and the house should not have smelt sweeter, but the manor suffered from a year of neglect and Rosalie set herself to the task of filling the rooms with lavender and spices to sweeten the air. She also gave instructions that the kitchens should dry many herbs and flowers for the winter.

It seemed strange to her: Richard was sitting in a foreign dungeon, John was running amuck in London, her husband was somewhere in Sherwood Forest killing outlaws, and she was arranging flowers. And for what reason did she purpose? What did it matter how the house smelt when the world was spiralling out of control beyond its walls? She was a useless instrument: she had no purpose or function in this strange world.

Rosalie's head ached from a weeks of little sleep and much worry. She felt isolated even surrounded by chattering serving girls. She began to wonder if she had always felt this way and was only now aware of it because of the changes in her circumstances. But what did it matter? Many were isolated and many more even sought isolation. Rosalie tried to recall a time when she was not alone, but she could not. Even during those few, sweet times with Richard, the only member of her family who had shown her love, she felt as though there was something detaching her from everyone and everything. There was a part of her that had always been untouched, a place where she wanted nothing more than to be touched.

Tired of the house and craving fresh air, Rosalie set out toward the village again, once more denying an escort. She was not in London and her house would always be in sight. Besides, Guy had given her no instructions in regards to where she could go or what protection to take and she would seize what few liberties she could.

Robin watched the lady walk down the worn path through the village. She had not plaited her hair into braids, but let it fall over her shoulders, reflecting the sunlight in contrast to the deep indigo of her gown. She carried herself with the grace of a woman of court, but her eyes failed to stare down the length of her Angevin nose. Instead, they were veiled by her lashes that hid their sadness.

He was taken aback when he saw that downcast face look up and her pale face light up into a smile, the first he had seen from her, when she saw a young mother cooing her babe. She went straight to them without putting a kerchief to her nose or invoking some sign of respect from the woman as her new lady, but touched the woman's shoulder and cupped the infant's small head in her hand.

At Lady Gisborne's request, the woman eased her child into the lady's waiting arms and Robin felt a pang of guilt as he replaced the image before him with Marian's.

* * *

"But where is Allan?" Much demanded. "Selling his soul to Gisborne and the sheriff, I'll wager?"

"How about spending the night roaming around Sherwood to make sure Gisborne could not track him back here," sang Allan's voice. The three turned to see their red-headed friend staring back at them with dark tired eyes that betrayed his injury at their distrust.

"And failing in spite of it all," added a cool baritone.


	10. Lords and Lady

Chapter Nine  
Lords and Lady

Robin watched patiently while Lady Gisborne spoke with the goodwife and cradled the babe. He did not notice her smile wane as she kissed the child's soft head, or looked into the eyes of the mother; he was too distracted with schemes to get near her, to speak with her without being seen. It was safe to say that she did not know who he was and she had looked him directly in the eye the day before, the day he tried to kill her husband, and she did not say a word. His instincts told him that he could trust her, but his brain (which began to sound like more like Tuck with each day) urged him to be cautious.

Finally, he watched the lady return the child to his mother and begin the trek back to the manor. He would have to move quickly.

Robin pulled his hood over his head and followed after, staying near the houses as he went. She walked quickly and he was fairly running to make pace with her after the head she gained. At last, he was within earshot of her.

"Lady Gisborne!" he hissed.

The lady turned to see him standing beneath the eaves of the nearest house, bowing low.

"I have no money for alms," she said, her voice distracted but not unkind. "If you come to the manor, I will see that you are fed."

Robin did not lift his face, but kept his eyes fixed upon his boots knowing that if she saw him, she would recognise him. Nonetheless, his breath caught to hear Gisborne's wife offer comfort to one she believed to be unfortunate. She made him think of Marian, but he was beginning to realise that is what always drew him to her.

At last, he looked up.

Rosalie paled at the sight of him. His face had haunted her since the previous morning when she thought he would be her husband's murderer. Somehow, she had known that would not be the last she saw of him, but she did not expect him to approach her so brazenly.

"What do you want with me?" she demanded, her voice even despite her pallor.

"If you please, I would speak with you," he replied with all the grace and courtesy of a gentleman.

"You tried to kill my husband," she retorted. "How dare you show your face?"

"Please, my lady," he hissed, looking to be sure that no one saw them. "Hear me."

Rosalie stood for a moment looking into his entreating eyes. They were not the eyes of a killer; they were honest and sincere, now lacking the hatred they held the day before, but still riddled with sorrow that seemed to follow him, always at his heels. She knew that she should turn him in, but something inside her insisted that if she did she would be committing a greater crime.

Robin saw in her eyes that she had assented and lead her around to the back of the house, where they could evade prying eyes and eaves droppers. Treating with Gisborne's wife was very dangerous.

"You are Robin Hood," Rosalie stated more than asked. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had always known that and now the realization rang clearly.

"At your service, my lady," he replied with a grin and a bow.

"I ought to give you over right now," she hissed.

Robin arched his brow in amusement: the rose had thorns after all.

"If you really wanted that, you would have done it yesterday," he said, cocking his head with a smug smile.

"You brought me here to speak," she snapped, eager to change the conversation. "Say what you will and be done with it."

"First tell me your name," Robin insisted flatly.

"I am the Lady of Locksley and of Gisborne," she answered, her eyes ablaze with contempt.

"Well then, that means you are my wife," Robin laughed, "for I am the Lord of Locksley. Congratulations, my lady, you have managed to acquire two husbands."

Before she knew what she was about, Rosalie felt the palm of her hand sting as it made contact with his cheek. She had never struck anyone in her entire life and while she felt a small satisfaction in defending herself against insults, she also felt her stomach twist in guilt at causing another pain. Worse yet, she was alone with a strange man and she had no idea what this outlaw might be capable of.

If she had struck Guy, she assumed he would have struck her back with enough force to assure her that she was no match for his strength. Even if he did not return in kind, his anger would have been enough to send her cowering into a corner. Hood, however, did not glower, he did not look angry. Instead he looked her straight in the eye.

"I apologise, my lady," he said, "I was only in jest."

Robin took a step forward, his eyes having lost their laughter and become sincere.

"What is your Christian name, Lady Gisborne?" he asked.

"Rosalie Anjou," she replied, her temper cooled and her cheeks flushed in shame and exhilaration for her actions.

"So you are _La Petite Belle,_" Robin remarked, appraising her in admiration and curiosity.

Rosalie tensed. Only Richard called her by that name: it was the only pet name she had ever been given. Whenever he returned to London, or visited her father, he would ride into the courtyard, jump off of his horse and call her by that name, and she would come running into his great bear hug. She had cherished those memories in the dark cell of the convent, when the sun seemed to have stayed in the east with him.

"How did you know?" she demanded.

"King Richard often spoke of you," he replied. "But he described a little girl, not a woman."

Rosalie felt herself softening: this man knew Richard, he had spoken with him! She had not heard one word from him since he left for the Holy Land, but Robin had. He must have, for Richard would never share family secrets with a stranger. But then again, she reasoned, Richard could not help it if a friend turned traitor.

"How dare you speak of him now?" Rosalie challenged, "You have turned your back on him and England."

Robin seized her elbow and moved forward so that his face was inches from hers. His eyes seemed to burn through her skin and the timbre of his voice strengthened in anger at the accusation from a stranger who knew nothing of all he had done, all he had given, and all he had lost in the name of England and King Richard.

"I have never turned my back on my king or my country," he swore. "Everything I have done has been in their name and for their good."

"You would murder my husband in service to your people?" she hissed, meeting his gaze fearlessly.

"You do not know what your husband has done to these people," Robin answered, his face darkening at the mention of Gisborne. "He has turned people out of their homes and burned them to the ground; he has taken their children to work in the mines and seized what few possessions they had. He is a murderer."

Rosalie's face turned pale as a sheet. She could believe what Robin said about the peasants; in fact a part of her was already aware of that part of her husband's past. He was not the first man, nor would he be the last to commit such evils. She had waited for the ghosts that plagued Guy to come haunt her, but she was unprepared for them.

"And what did he do to you that you should hate him so singularly?" she asked, endeavouring to keep her voice steady.

Sorrow washed over Robin's ashen features.

"He murdered my wife," he said. "He killed Marian."

Rosalie stood staring into Robin's face, but all the while seeing nothing. It was as though a cloud had come into her vision. She willed herself not to believe it, but the grief and the sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable. _Marian…_ The name Guy had called in the dark of the night when he thought no one could hear. Was it this outlaw's wife that tormented her husband?

She opened her mouth to speak, but was silenced by the sound of horses drawing near. She turned to see an entourage of some half dozen soldiers being lead by a very angry looking bald man. When she turned back to Hood, he was gone. Rosalie was not surprised that he would run at the sight of soldiers, after all, there was a large reward for his head.

As the patrol drew near, Rosalie began to wish he had been a little braver and stayed. She knew well enough that her husband had no real allies in Nottingham and she was willing to wager he had earned his share of enemies. Guy had left a few men to guard the manor and protect his wife, but she was unsure how they would measure up if these soldiers did not come to pay their respects to the new Lady Gisborne.

_Curse cowardice,_ she thought, _I am an Angevin, I can face anything._ And, with that thought in mind, Rosalie gathered her skirts in her hands and ran to the manor house to await the arrival of their visitors.

* * *

The sheriff gave a sniff of contempt as he road up to Locksley Manor. His sharp eyes carefully observed the state of the grounds and the few men there with feigned boredom, looking for any indication of how well Gisborne really fared under Prince John. It unnerved him to see the estate, so recently in disrepair, already being put to right with Gisborne's undoubtedly substantial purse.

The door to the manor opened and out walked a young woman in a dark blue gown with a white veil and jewelled headdress. She did not give him curtsey, but stood with white hands folded before her. Her pretty face was calm a collected, but her youth was apparent though her veil gave her the appearance of an abbess over her domain. Vasey grinned wickedly as he imagined the sinful things Gisborne must have done with this innocent.

"Lady Gisborne," the sheriff greeted, "I am Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham. Is your husband at home?"

Now aware of whom her visitor was, Rosalie gave a respectful, but shallow curtsey and answered, "He left before dawn, Lord Sheriff. I am sure he will be sorry to have not been present to greet you himself."

"What a shame," Vasey remarked with a smile. This day was getting better by the minute. "I have just come from Kirklees Abbey and I thought I would stop and pay my respects to the new Lady Gisborne. May I impose upon your hospitality for a drink?"

Rosalie's sharp eyes flew to his face while the mind behind her cool face worked to size up his character, which took very little time. There was a reason Guy hated this man, but she would not put her family on the wrong side of him; that was her husband's office. The sheriff was the most powerful man in Nottingham and until Guy returned with his own small army, she had a feeling it would be best to err on the side of caution.

"Please, come in, sir," she replied with a graceful, but hallow smile.

Vasey dismounted with ease and tossed his reins to a nearby soldier before heading inside, removing his gloves peevishly as he went.

Rosalie called for a jug of wine and bread and cheese to refresh the sheriff and directed him to a seat at the table. While she busied herself with the duties of a hostess, he took the opportunity to assess the house. He could not remember visiting Locksley and not catching a faint, stale odour commonly associated with barracks, but now the air smelled like lavender and rosewater: feminine, yes, but also very healthful. Could it be that Gisborne was becoming domesticated?

White hands poured him a tankard of wine and sliced the cheese into small chunks for her guest to eat, all under the scrutinising, black eyes of the sheriff. It was apparent that the lady did not like to be without her husband, not with armed soldiers outside, but no woman would. She was refreshingly unlike Guy's previous leper who would have shown cold hostility and unwavering bravery in the face of the powerful man before her. This one was as quiet as a lamb, but Vasey could tell by the flicker of her dark eyes she was by no means stupid. She was innocent which was a virtue in itself, but too often coupled with the great weakness of ignorance.

"It must be hard for you," Vasey said softly as he received his chalice from his hostess. "I know Guy well: he has a temper, he can be… brutal."

"He is a good soldier and he has provided well for me," Rosalie answered, carefully evading eye-contact. She knew well enough when she was being baited and she would not fall into his traps.

Vasey would not be easily thwarted.

"Still," he continued with an unaffected air, "I'm sure he is not the most sensitive person to your circumstances. You must be terrified for the king."

"I am," she replied calmly, this time meeting Vasey head on. "But I rest assured that His Majesty, my cousin will return home and my husband will be an instrument to that end."

"You do not know your husband well, do you?" The sheriff could not disguise his sneer.

He set his tankard upon the table and strode toward Rosalie. She struggled not to flinch at his approach, though everything about this man's presence made her skin crawl. She was right, Guy had very good reason to hate and fear this man.

"Do you know why there are no Gisborne lands, my lady?" Vasey inquired.

Rosalie's silence was enough answer. Guy never spoke of Gisborne. After his brusque response to her inquiries about Locksley, she learned it was better not to speak of the past with him when at all possible.

"They were seized," the sheriff explained, "by the crown. Guy's father sided with Queen Eleanor in against your Uncle Henry in favour of Richard for the throne. Henry locked the queen up at Salisbury and seized your late father-in-law's lands. Richard never realised this, obviously. I'm sure you know your dear aunt well enough."

Rosalie sucked in a breath. She knew Eleanor of Aquitaine and she knew the woman would stop at nothing, but while most strategists would be more careful of burning bridges, Eleanor charged over them with such a force that they collapsed almost before she had crossed them. She used her every resource to its limit, seldom returning to the same well once she had drunk it dry. It was because of Eleanor that she had not been chosen for Richard's bride and the young heart could suffer little forgiveness for such an injury.

"In any case," Vasey continued, smiling as he realised he had her mind going in the direction he intended, "when Richard failed to return the Gisborne lands, Guy took it very much to heart. He has hated the king from that moment on."

Rosalie turned and glared straight into Vasey's black eyes. His lips parted, baring his teeth.

"If I were you, my lady," he said, "I would not be so certain of Guy's… devotion. There have been rumours."

"What rumours?" Rosalie's voice sounded cold and tight to her own ears.

"I have my suspicions that Guy has been to the Holy Land," the sheriff told her. "I do not have the evidence to prove it: his doctor insists that he was ill for several months, but it just so happened during that period that an attempt was made on the king's life."

Rosalie let out a heavy breath through her nostrils as her dark eyes stared back into the face before her. Unlike Guy and Robin, Vasey did not flinch under her soul-piercing gaze, but he could not hide from it anymore than they could.

"You are a liar," she said coldly, slowly.

"Yes, I am," Vasey answered with a grin as he turned and walked back to the table where he had left his gloves. He picked them up and turned back to her. "But, unfortunately for you," he said, gesturing toward her with the limp fingers of the glove in his hand, "just this once, I am actually telling the truth. I will see myself out. Good day, madam."

And with a cold, fiendish chuckle, Vasey turned and walked out leaving Rosalie alone to recover her wits, to think on all she had learned that day. She wanted nothing more than to sit in her room and dwell upon what Hood and Vasey had told her, to sort through everything, but she could not. There was still work to be done and nothing could be solved sitting about. She would not believe Robin, not until he had more than his word to present her with. Guy was her husband and she was bound to him. Even if it were true, nothing could be changed by it.


	11. Strange Bedfellows

Chapter Ten  
"Strange Bedfellows"

It was nearing midday when the sound of horses drew near Locksley for the second time that day. Rosalie felt her spine stiffen as her ears strained to catch the sound as if it would give her any indication of who was approaching. She had dealt with enough unwelcome visitors at the manor house for one day, she was not sure her taxed energy could suffer a smile for one more scheming lord or vassal.

"The master returns!" called the shrill voice of a stable hand.

For the first time in their marriage, Rosalie heaved a sigh of relief at the thought of Guy's presence. She felt safer at the thought of him being home to protect her from sheriffs and outlaws. Instantly, she set the servant girls to work with having water brought for him to wash and wine for him to drink, while she went to the kitchen herself to retrieve the bread from the oven.

By the time she returned to the hall, her husband was already standing there with one of his men speaking lowly. She slowed her gait and went to quietly set the bread upon the table and fill his tankard. It seemed that the servants had a magical ability for the wine had appeared out of thin air, but the girl who had been sent for it had vanished; as had the rest of the staff, for that matter.

When Guy had dismissed his subordinate, he turned to regard the sight before him. It was a rare thing to have freshly baked bread at Locksley, unless it was baking day, which Guy was fairly sure it was not, but there stood his wife with a large, golden loaf that still had steam rising from it. Her face was flushed from the heat of the oven, lending a glow to her pale complexion. If her eyes did not look so tired, he could almost believe she was smiling.

"Are you hungry, my lord?" she asked.

Guy was never hungry and he opened his mouth to tell her so when the aroma from the bread and the sweet smell of lavender reached his nostrils and subsequently assaulted his stomach. He felt a deep, gnawing burn within his belly that he had not felt in many months and his dry mouth began to water as he drew near the table.

He reached for the bread, but stopped short when he heard Rosalie gently clear her throat. He looked up at her in askance, then followed her eyes to the basin of water and regarded his dirty hands. Who knew wives were so similar to mothers?

She actually gave him a pleased look when he acquiesced to washing his hands. He even caught something very close to a smile grace her mouth. He had never seen her smile and he was sure that he did not want to. He had too many memories of Marian's shining face when she smiled, he did not want this woman to conjure them up for him.

"You have been busy," he remarked as he sat down and tore into the bread.

"Are you pleased?" she inquired, taking a seat beside him and smoothing out the wrinkles from her gown.

"I am very pleased today," Guy answered with a self-satisfied smirk. "And, very soon, your cousin will be as well."

Rosalie felt her heart leap into her throat as her mouth went dry.

"Have you caught Robin Hood?"

Guy washed down his bread with a gulp of wine, not noticing his wife's pallor.

"No, but I will soon enough," he replied. "I have captured all of his men. He is powerless without them. He will come for them."

"So you have set a trap," she surmised, more to make conversation than an observation. She was clever enough to recognise the obvious, but she hoped her husband would mistake the heat rising to her face for being flushed from standing near the oven. In truth, her heart was pounding and her mind was thinking of the broken, empty eyes she had stared into that afternoon.

Guy coughed as some wine tickled his throat, breaking his wife from her thoughts. Those same sad eyes she had pitied had also betrayed their owner's intent to kill her husband. Robin Hood was bent on revenge; had Guy given him the incentive he needed?

"I saw Hood today."

The words came out before Rosalie herself could register them. She was not even certain she had thought them, much less spoken them, but the swift turn of Guy's head and his steely eyes boring through her were proof of what she had said.

She felt his iron hand grasp her wrist in a vice-like grip, jerking her toward him with a kind of force that teetered just on the verge of violence. The muscles in his neck and jaw tensed so tightly that she could see the pulse tick in the veins that ran just beneath the flesh and his nostrils flared unevenly with his hot breath. Her heart quaked at the look in his eyes, a look she could not read or predict.

"What?" he choked out, tightening his fingers when she looked away to keep her attention.

Rosalie thought of everything Hood had told her about her husband and his past. She had previously believed that he would never physically harm her, but his expression was indiscernible and her mind filled with doubt. She was afraid and she hated herself for the weak tears that stung her eyes.

"Please, Guy," she gasped, "you are hurting me."

Neither of them realised that it was the first time Rosalie had addressed her husband by his Christian name. Guy huffed at her protestation, the monster within him roaring within its cage, demanding release, but he had wagered on his own anger frightening her into submission and confession of whatever sin he was certain she was guilty of. He did not take into account that he would be looking into her eyes, eyes that filled with tears and, try as he might, Guy could not stop the image of Marian that flashed through his mind.

_She is not Marian,_ he thought to himself. _She is on your side. _

"_You are a decent man, you are not a killer."_

For the first time in a long time, Guy listened to the voice he could not silence. He loosed his grip upon his wife's pale arm and unconsciously chafed the skin he had offended.

"Stop weeping, woman," he muttered, looking down at their hands, more to avoid her eyes than anything. If he had not looked away, he would have seen the anger flash behind the tears at being treated like a child. "Where did you meet Hood?" His voice was taut as the man battled the monster within.

"In the village," she answered. "I was walking; he was disguised as a beggar."

"What did he say?" Guy leaned back in his chair and watched his wife's face keenly. She kept her eyes fixed upon her lap where her hands wrung together. He could see that she was treading carefully to avoid provoking him again and he supposed he should feel guilty for that. Perhaps there was a small part of him that did, a piece of him buried deep within the secret chasms of what was left of his soul, but he could not sense it.

"He said that you have done terrible things." The words came out of Rosalie's mouth slowly, halting over a trembling lip that struggled to still itself in vain. She was afraid of rousing his anger, he could see as plain as day, but she was more afraid of the truth. "He said that you murdered his wife. Marian."

"His _wife_?"

The face before her went ashen at her words. Guy had expected Hood to relate his many crimes to Rosalie, but he had never anticipated he would hear those words. He felt as though he had been shot through the heart and the old wounds that he thought had hardened began to bleed freely. During all these months of hating Hood, of hating himself most of all, Guy had found some dark reassurance in the thought that Hood had lost her too, that he could not have her either. Now, knowing that Marian had given him everything that Guy had ever wanted, he could see her laughing at him once more, but he could also feel her lips pressed against his and her hand upon his arm.

"My lord?"

Guy's own wife's voice pulled him reluctantly back to reality and he turned to her with a dark look that made her blood run cold. Her white hand had reached to touch his when she saw the shadow engulf his face, but at his glower she quickly removed it, pinching the fabric of her gown between her fingers as though to soothe a burn.

"Go ahead and ask, woman," he barked, noting her badly hidden flinch.

Most women of Rosalie's breeding would have fled the room in a fit of tears, but Guy watched with dormant regard as she rallied her courage with a deep breath and bravely met his glare with a look of frank honesty.

"Is it true?" she asked evenly.

Guy's lip curled into a snarl, but this time she did not look away; her dark, open eyes rested calmly upon him, waiting for his answer with the serenity of the Blessed Virgin and with a knowing that reminded him too much of the one he had lost. He looked away, unable to endure her stare.

What could he say? Did he bare his soul to her? Confess his sins to this virginal saint? When Marian broke his heart, he vowed that he would never open it again. He could not endure this: he could not bear to feel the pain again. Rosalie did not belong in his world, she had no business treating with killers and liars, and he would not allow her there, nor would he allow himself to trust anyone but himself again. He was his only companion.

"I must see to my prisoners," he growled between gritted teeth, carefully evading her face as he stood and made for the door. "Do not wait up for me."

Then, with a loud crash of two oak slabs meeting, he was gone and Rosalie stood watching after him in wonderment. Who was this man she had married?


	12. Sad Smiles

Chapter Eleven  
"Sad Smiles"

Twilight found Robin trudging through Sherwood, replaying the events of the day in his mind. He had spoken with the enigmatic Lady Gisborne, he had warned her against the monster she was bound to, and he had nothing to show for it. Whether she believed him or not, it was clear that she continued in denial of the facts he had presented to her. Only time would truly tell if she would open her eyes to the reality of what her husband was and if she would find the courage to escape him before it was too late.

Every time Robin closed his eyes, he could still see Rosalie staring back at him: accusing him and saving him at once. The image would inevitably give way to Marian's and his heart would break all over again as he tried to banish the horrible memory of watching her slip away from him as he tried to banish the memory of her leaving him.

As he drew near the camp, a prickling on the back of his neck, warned Robin that something was not right. He could almost hear something in the distance, something foreign, something that did not belong in the forest that he had learned to know like his own body. It was nearing dinner hour, but Robin did not smell Much's cooking waft through the trees, nor did he hear Little John's heavy step as he returned from the villages. Much was not complaining and Allan was not teasing: something was not right.

"What if he already knows about the trap?" Robin heard a strange, southern cockney ask. "I heard that Hood could shoot ten men before you could blink."

In a flash, Hood ducked behind a tree, listening carefully, but keeping well out of sight.

"Old wives' tales and ghost stories is all that is," replied a lower, thicker voice. "I bet Hood is little more than a lavender-scented pansy, larking about the forest with a lute singing about damsels. Besides, Sir Guy has got his men: I'd like to see one man get past me."

"If he's a pansy," challenged the first voice, "then why has nobody caught him these past three years?"

There was a mumble of frustration and attempted reply from the second voice, but he seemed unable to come to a conclusive answer and Robin heard the distinct sound of an arm meeting a stomach.

"Shut up, you!" barked the lower voice. "Keep your eye out."

"Keep my eye out for a lavender-scented pansy?" laughed the tenor, his voice still a little winded from the blow.

"I'm warning you!" growled the reply.

Robin did not linger to hear how the conflict was resolved. The goons had given him all the information he needed for now and he knew where he could learn the rest. His mind raced as he made his way through the forest, keeping a close watch for anymore of Gisborne's men. Had Allan betrayed them once more? Had Robin been a fool to trust a second time? How could Gisborne have found the camp? It was one of two things that Allan had never betrayed to Guy and the sheriff. Even if he had turned coat once more, why would he give them up now?

Night was falling fast and Hood was running out of options. He could not infiltrate Nottingham Castle by himself and he was out of friends within. The Hero of Sherwood realised with no small amount of resentment that he was powerless alone. He was powerless without his friends and he was powerless without Marian.

* * *

Guy stood at his door, watching as his men carried out their orders, preparing themselves for the night watch. If Hood did come tonight, as Guy dearly hoped he would, he would have to contend with a well-trained and mercenary horde. These men had come from the south of England, they had no ties to the land or the people; they did only as they were told because that was what they were paid for. He more than half-wished there were more people of such mettle in the world.

He knew that Locksley had faced greater odds, but never alone before. Never had anyone succeeded in capturing the entire gang. It would be amusing to see what tricks Hood had up his sleeve, but he would fail in the end. Guy promised himself that.

Guy amused himself with the thought that, in the end, Allan had served him and not Hood. It was a cruel, delicious irony. For the past eight months, Guy could never truly ignore the twist in his stomach whenever he thought of A' Dale. He cursed himself for ever believing that he could trust the scoundrel, for almost believing he had an ally in him. His betrayal only reminded Guy that he could only ever trust himself.

At the sound of groaning hinges, Guy turned to see his lady wife silhouetted in the threshold, holding a basket filled with food. His features contorted into a snarl and he glared at her as she stepped out into the night.

"My lady," he said thickly, his steely eyes sending her a stark warning.

She did not blanch at his menace. He hated it when she did not blanch; it was too much like…

"My lord," she replied calmly, walking toward the barn.

"What do you think you are about, woman?" he demanded, catching her by the arm and spinning her to face him. He had to bend his tall frame to be eye-level with her, but she met his gaze and he felt only a slight tremor pass through her body.

One year ago, when he had Marian, or when he thought he had Marian to temper him, he would have admired Rosalie's determination. He knew that she was afraid of him, or rather of what he might do to her, but she overcame it. She never met him with open defiance or even bravery. She acted from a deep conviction which she could not ignore, no matter the consequence.

Marian would have smiled and coquetted with him until he gave her what she wanted and if she did not win with smiles, she would resort to contemptuous frowns. Rosalie made her intention known and forthright; she looked him straight in the eye with absolute honesty, despite her apparent fear.

"Even prisoners must eat, husband," she answered quietly. "I am the lady of this house; it is my station to see them fed."

"This is not court, Rosalie," he hissed into her ear. "This is not a convent where the masses seek refuge. This country is wild and so are the people. These men are outlaws."

Rosalie's dark eyes fell to her feet and Guy saw her lips curl into a wan, sad smile.

"I am not as timid as you think me," she said softly.

The truth was that Rosalie had no idea what her husband thought of her. At the end of the day, neither did Guy. He knew she would march right past him to complete her mission and he could not stop her short of physically dragging her back to house and he did not think he could withstand to have her in his arms. He would only remember his struggles with Marian as she tried to escape and he could not endure those thoughts.

"You!" Guy bellowed, beckoning a liveried guard to approach. "Take the Lady Gisborne to feed the prisoners: assist her in any way she requires. If any harm befalls my lady, you will answer to me, is that clear?"

"Aye, my lord," was the quick reply.

The men had learned very early in their training that Guy was not one to cross.

"My lord," Rosalie gratefully bobbed a curtsey.

Guy stood watching as she strode toward the barn with the soldier in tow. For a moment, he thought of Marian smiling as she gave him an apple, of all the times she distracted him whilst Hood had his way. His stomach clenched to think that every smile she had given him had been a lie. Rosalie never smiled, not truly. It was always a wry smirk or a sad expression of some ironic emotion he did not care to discover. Perhaps it was because Rosalie had not learned how to lie, she only knew how to feel and she could not feel joy in his presence.

He wondered how long it would take life to poison her, to change her as it had him. He wondered how long she could live with him before he corrupted and destroyed her as he had destroyed everything that was good in his life.


	13. No Allies

Chapter Twelve  
"No Allies"

Inside the barn, Rosalie instructed the guard to light the torches so that she could see what she was doing and the faces of the men who followed Hood. Once the lights had been lit and her eyes had adjusted, she was surprised indeed by what she saw. She was not sure entirely what she had expected, but she knew that the reality differed greatly from her imagination. The infamous band of outlaws consisted only of two very scrawny ginger-haired men and two very large men; one who looked as though he had always lived in the wilds of the shire and the other a Moor dressed in priestly habit.

The man who surprised her the most was the Moor. She had only seen one once when she was a child, but he had been a slave. She could still remember her nurse carrying on about pagans and the devil, but this man looked directly into her eyes. His expression stated that he was no better, nor worse than any other man, but something in the way he watched her made her feel as though he knew her, though she could not remember him.

It was a ginger-haired man who spoke first, the more cunning of the two, she guessed right away. He held his mouth as though there was always a jest hanging upon the tip of his tongue.

"So, you must be the new Lady Gisborne," he said. "I'd offer my congratulations if I didn't feel so bloody sorry for you."

"Watch your mouth, scum!" shouted the guard, moving to strike him.

"Stay your hand!" Rosalie shouted upon instinct. When the guard turned to her in confusion, she added, "If you disobey me, I will tell my lord and I do not think he would be as merciful as I am."

Fear of Guy was a more effective leverage than Rosalie could ever have hoped for and the soldier immediately stood down. It almost made her realise one advantage to being a married woman: her husband's authority gave her some measure of her own for an insult to her was an insult to him and Guy was not the kind of man who took lightly to insults.

"I am the Lady Gisborne," she replied archly, addressing the outlaws, "and the Lady of Locksley. For the sake of Christian mercy, I have brought you food and water for the night. I do not need your congratulations and I think it is I who should feel pity for you."

"My name is Allan," returned the witty one with a smirk, "Allan A' Dale and I still feel sorry for you, Lady Gisborne."

"Allan…" chided the Moor, with a groan. His eyes fell once more upon Rosalie.

Before he could speak, there was the sound of a loud crash and shouting.

"Fire, fire!!!" shrieked a boyish voice.

Rosalie's guard moved toward the door, but looked back in hesitation unsure whether he would get the worse beating for abandoning his assignment or for not being there to help in calamity.

The situation presented itself more clearly to his lady, who had the benefit of some education and innate cleverness. "Go," she ordered. "They are tied and bound; even if they were not, where would they go?"

"You watch yourselves, curs," the guard warned, trying pathetically to look menacing. Before the one called Allan could make a smart reply, he was out the door, leaving the lady alone with outlaws for the second time that day.

"My lady," the Moor said courteously, "Would you please help me break the bread? These bonds make it difficult." He held up his hands which, like his ankles, had been tied in front of him at the wrists.

Rosalie curled her lips as a sign of acknowledgment of what he said and knelt down with the basket and began to divide the two small loaves she had brought into four even pieces.

"My lady," the Moor whispered when she was near enough, "we serve King Richard. We know about the ransom; we are trying to stop Prince John from stealing his crown."

Rosalie looked at him sharply.

"I have heard this before," she said thickly, her dark eyes warning him not to try her any further than she had already been today.

"I know you wish to honour your husband, as Our Lord commands," he hissed, trying to win her trust, but he had already said too much and watched her eyes open in realisation.

* * *

Guy gritted his teeth as he ran toward the shed where the fire had started. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his eyes darted in each direction, willing Hood to appear. Distraction was the outlaw's only advantage and Guy senses were on edge, waiting for the slightest trace of his enemy's presence. He almost thought he saw Hood's laughing eyes.

"Put that fire out!" he ordered the manor hands. His soldiers were meant for better uses. "Get back to your posts!" he bellowed at the guards standing nearest him. He spotted two more, standing watching the flames like cats with string and called to them. "You two, search the perimeter! Don't leave a corner, shadow, or crack unchecked!"

At that moment, an unlucky stable hand happened to pass behind his master, hoping to make it safely to the kitchens, only to feel an iron fist grasp his collar and throw him in the direction of the burning shed.

Get that fire out!" Guy shouted then wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand in frustration. He turned to go make his own inspection of the house, when he found himself face to face with one mercenary who should not be there.

The poor fool could barely keep from wetting himself as the black knight stalked toward him, looming over him with steel-blue eyes burning white-hot with rage.

* * *

"You were the priest," she let out in a breath. Tuck could not tell from her eyes whether she felt angry, hurt, or betrayed. She looked tired; she looked like a child; she looked like the man who had been blind from birth that the Lord healed. But the world Rosalie's eyes had been opened to see was not a physical one of shapes and colours, but it was a harsh reality that she had fought her entire life: she could trust no one; she was only a pawn in the games men played for power.

"You will burn for impersonating a priest!" whispered a voice that sounded like Rosalie's, though she could not feel her mouth move to utter it.

"I am a priest," the Moor replied. "I fight for England, for our king. I am sorry to have misused your trust, but would you not have done the same and worse if it meant helping King Richard?"

Everywhere Richard's name was uttered; the owner was held captive hundreds of leagues away from his kingdom, but his name was whispered by men with differing agendas, all claiming to be in his service. The name was cold: it meant nothing to these men. They associated it with power, with the crown, with an idea. To Rosalie, 'Richard' meant love and laughter; it meant a warm embrace and a shining smile in a world where all others tried to shut her away, to forget her. She was weary of hearing it profaned.

Before she could contrive a worthy answer for the priest, the barn's occupants were soundly startled by the crash of the door against wall and the bellow of Rosalie's name by a gravelly and menacing baritone.

"I am here, my lord," Rosalie replied graciously to irate man standing before her.

Her cool composure acted as a check for Guy's hot temper and he strove to gain control of himself as befitted his position. He was the master and the circumstances were all in his favour; he could not afford to lose control of anything now, least of all himself.

"I trust your mercy trip is complete?" he inquired in a clipped, pointed tone.

"Aw," moaned Allan with a wicked gleam in his eye. "And here Lady Gisborne and me were just getting to know one another."

"Silence, you!" Guy growled, giving his former lackey a violent kick in the stomach.

"Guy, no!" cried Rosalie, reaching out in a valiant, though futile attempt to stay her husband's arm as he continued to pummel the wretch. She did not give up, and with time, the feeling of her touch managed to rein him back to the present.

He turned to her, his eyes still burning with the fury A' Dale had sparked and she now invited for herself with her blatant defiance in the presence of his enemies. For a split second, she anticipated a stinging slap, but none came. Little by little, Guy's breathing slowed into an even pace and his complexion returned to its normal pallor.

This change was not lost on Tuck, whose dark eyes and holy mind saw all.

"I think it time you return to the manor house, Lady Gisborne," Guy said thickly, extending his gloved hand toward his wife.

She placed her fingertips in the cup of his hand and allowed him to lead her out of the barn. As they passed through the threshold, she could not help but look back at the Moor. His words echoed in her mind with every other fact and fiction swimming in her brain. Somewhere in the midst of it all was the truth, but how could she find it? How could she be sure?

As Guy escorted her directly to the manor, her thoughts turned to more immediate matters. Was he taking her home for a beating? She did not think she could stand even a tirade in her present state of nerves. One harsh word from him, from anyone, and she was certain she would be reduced to tears.

Guy sensed unease in her silence and bitterly imagined that her saintly and noble mind was at work branding him as a savage.

"You know I have a temper, woman," he said gruffly. "You should not be so alarmed."

The hand in his trembled and he gripped it, bringing her closer to steady her. By now, they had reached the door of the manor, where he had intended to leave her, but given her distress he decided it best to get her safely inside and guided her through the threshold.

"Did the outlaws bother you?" Guy asked once they were inside the house and away from prying eyes.

She shook her head.

"I do not have time for feminine delicacies, lady," he bit out. "If something troubles you, tell me plainly."

"I am well, my lord," she said. "I am simply tired."

Guy was impressed: so his nun of a wife was capable of lying from time to time. He was grateful she was bad at it: it would save him the constant suspicion he had lived with in trying to sort through Marian's secrets and betrayals.

"Then I shall leave you to retire, madam," he answered simply. And, with that, he was gone, leaving Rosalie standing in his wake.

Every man Lady Gisborne had met in this eventful day had done their best to sink their hooks in her, to put her on their puppet strings. Hood, Vasey, and the Moor all tried to rally her to their side using her one weakness: her loyalty to Richard, pitting against her the holy vows she made to her husband. If they were wrong, Guy had promised to kill her if she betrayed him. If they were right, how could she sit by and do nothing? Who could she trust? Who could she turn to?

She had no ally.

* * *

Guy worked quickly with his lieutenants, assigned the patrols and watches, and double checked them himself. He inwardly gloated that he had turned Locksley Manor, (a hunting lodge in comparison to most estates) into a venerable fortress. He felt confident in the security of the house and barns, despite the lack of outer walls. Hood would never be stupid enough to enter the house. It was his childhood home, he knew how easily Guy could trap him there and he had no leverage with which to escape. Marian was gone; finally, the loss had proven to be of some advantage.

In the past, Robin Hood need only aim his bow in the direction of Guy's dearly beloved lady and Gisborne would order twenty men to stand down and allow the outlaw to escape, just to protect one woman. Knowing now that all the while Marian had been in league with Hood, in love with Hood, he could not imagine how the cur could use her as a pawn in his games. He could never have put Marian at risk, he could never have put her in the obvious danger Robin did by making her his spy in Vasey's castle.

If it had not been for Hood's carelessness, for his self-righteous quest on behalf of a king who cared nothing for his country, Marian might still be alive. Even if she would have belonged to Hood, she would still be alive and, without her, Guy's world had turned to ash.

He had power, gold, provision, soldiers, and a wife to continue his line, but in the end it amounted to nothing when he could not see her face; when she only haunted him, tormented him for his countless crimes. He had loved her more than he could ever say and he loved her still, even in death. If he could only turn back time, he would forgive her the small betrayal, for loving Hood instead. At least that is what he told himself.

A ginger-haired stable hand in black livery walked past Guy, causing him to turn and watch the youth sulk into the darkness. He thought of Allan A' Dale, of the man he had almost called friend once upon a time. One by one, Guy was betrayed by those he trusted most: Marian, Allan, and, finally, Vasey. Vasey, whom Guy had chosen over Marian, whose life Guy had saved, rewarded him by giving him the blame for their failure in Acre. He had sent Guy to his death, Marian had chosen death over his love, and Allan had chosen outlaws who would never forgive him over the life Guy offered.

He had no allies.


	14. The Lock and Key

Chapter Thirteen  
The Lock and Key

Robin hid himself in the shadows of the trees, grateful that clouds had come to hide the moon. His fire had worked: Gisborne had shown him where they were keeping his men, now he need only get them out, but he could not do that without help. If it were as simple as turning himself over in exchange for their freedom, he would have made that choice: he was on his own and did not have Much to stop him or Tuck to give another of his greater-good speeches.

Robin had believed in the greater good once and a part of him still did, though he now failed to see how his life was worth more another's. Robin Hood was only idea that he did not doubt Tuck would keep alive long after he, Robert of Locksley, had died. He had to fight to keep hope alive in himself has he had once fought to keep it alive in the hearts of the people of Nottingham and each day that battle proved a little harder.

As it was, he could not barter for them, not with only himself. He needed leverage.

Rosalie.

* * *

Lady Gisborne forewent supper; her appetite had been stifled before the day had even begun. If she thought about it, she had barely eaten or slept since her wedding day, three months ago. Gazing at her skewed reflection in the mirror she looked for signs of age. She felt older, felt haggard. Her skin was pale and shadows gathered beneath her dark eyes that looked even uglier in the witching candlelight. As her dark hair fell over her white shoulders, it created a ghostly image in the watery glass. Her lips were colourless, disappearing into the thin line that divided them in a sickly mode.

She wondered for a moment if the woman staring back at her was even herself. She could remember being beautiful once; she could remember Richard telling her that she was as fair as a rose. Rosalie could see nothing of beauty in the woman before her. Perhaps it was that she was looking at her soul, that she saw herself for what she truly was: dark and ugly, full of sin and wickedness. She was an Angevin; she came from the same blood as King Henry II. The same cunning and treachery ran her veins that ran through John's. The sisters at the convent had always told her that her soul was black and foul, had that soul made its way to the surface?

But to one pair of gray-blue eyes, the face that stared in the mirror so solemnly and with such a scrutinizing brow could not be more beautiful, unless it could belong to Marian. Milky skin shone as the candlelight danced across its surface. The soul-piercing eyes were softened, glazed over with a sheen of weariness, of uncertainty. Her hair fell in soft tendrils over her slight throat and back, and she stood in only a plain, white shift with no title and no status. She was only the young woman behind her name, the woman that belonged only to her and now, in a small way, to him.

This woman had stayed his hand, had endured his presence, and shown him mercy when he had given her no reason to grant it. She was his only hope, his only chance in this dark hour.

Moving carefully, so as not to startle her, Robin slipped through the window into Lady Gisborne's bedchamber.

"My lady," he whispered softly.

With a gasp, Rosalie turned to see Hood standing before her and he quickly caught her, covering her mouth with his hand before she could cry out. He knew she would bite; so, he grasped tightly as the gentleman within him felt barbaric for treating a woman roughly, even if it was to save his skin and his men.

"Hush, hush," he hissed, "I am not going to hurt you. I just want you to listen to what I have to say. When I have finished, if you still do not believe me you can scream your head off for your husband to come run me through."

Rosalie's nostrils flared and her eyes burned with rage in response. If he dared release her, she thought she may gladly watch as Guy cut him into a thousand pieces.

"Rosalie," Robin's eyebrows rose and his voice broke through her fury. "I would never betray King Richard. Everything you have been told is a lie and I can prove it, if you will only listen. If you do not, Prince John will see to it that he never comes home."

At that, the glaring eyes diminished and fell in acquiescence.

Robin slowly removed his hand, his senses alert to any faint indication that she would scream. When she only moved to retrieve a dressing gown from where it lay on the bed, he suppressed a heavy sigh of relief, but kept his blue eyes fixed on her.

"Speak your peace, sir," she clipped, her mouth curling into a disdainful purse. For the first time, Rosalie actually reminded Hood of King Richard as he listened to a case, waiting to pass judgment. He had always taken for granted that Richard favoured Queen Eleanor, but it was now clear that he had more of King Henry in him than anyone realised.

"Less than a year ago, the sheriff travelled to the Holy Land under Prince John's orders," Robin stated with the dignity of the nobleman he had not been for many years as he strode to stand nearer so that she would be sure to hear his every word. "He was instructed to make a pact with the Turk to assassinate the king." Robin deliberately left out Guy's connection to the plot. To think of it would bring back memories of Marian he did not want to conjure up in that moment. More than that, as much as he hated Gisborne, he could not bring himself to hurt Rosalie anymore than he had to with the terrible truth he was about to share. "My men and I stopped it from happening." _Marian stopped it from happening_. "After that Vasey fell out of favour with the prince."

"What do my husband and I have to do with this?" she interjected.

"Gisborne is a Black Knight," he replied, his voice laced with the irony of an adult speaking to a foolish child. "He has pledged allegiance to Prince John."

"And to King Richard!" Rosalie challenged. "I have no love for John, but he poses little threat to Richard. He cannot win at dice even when he cheats. What proof do you have of his treachery or of my lord's involvement? What proof do you have that Guy is a Black Knight?"

"I need your help for that," Robin said evenly, his eyes glinting devilishly in the candlelight.

"Go to the devil," she spat, brushing past him with a huff.

"Do you show your husband this spirit?" the outlaw chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked after her in amusement.

Rosalie turned on her heel and shot daggers in his direction. She was reacting like a cornered lioness, scratching and biting at any possible threat. Later, she would wonder where she learnt to fight and claw when she had always been taught to be meek and obedient. Perhaps she had more of her Uncle Henry in her than she thought and those traces of strength that had lain dormant throughout her child and girlhood had awoken in the face of great need.

"You have five seconds before I scream," she warned.

"Gisborne keeps everything important in a locked room here in the manor," Robin said under-breath, taking care not to be heard. "Prince John will have sent him with information for his allies in the North; he will need to assure them that Richard will not return in order to rally their support. I need you to find it."

"You are a fool," Rosalie stared in disbelief.

"I have been called that many times, my lady," he replied with a cocky grin. "The proof is yours for the taking, Rosalie," Robin stated soberly.

"He will kill me if he catches me," she whispered the words almost before she thought them.

Robin stared into her doe-like eyes. He could see her pain, he watched the battle that raged within her mind as her instincts and logic warred. He saw her love for her cousin, her loyalty to her country, and fear of what would happen to her if she chose the wrong side. Fear of Guy, he surmised.

"He will kill your king if you do nothing," Robin answered, his eyes soft with pity and admiration. He reached out to touch her cheek in a tender gesture he knew was foreign to her marriage. As if rapt from a dream, Rosalie haughtily turned her face away from him and slapped his hand away.

Her cheeks burned, though from rage or longing she knew not. Guy had never raised his hand to touch her so. She could not remember the last time anyone had and in her lonely world she could not deny that she yearned for some form of touch, for someone to reach out and take hold of her, to stand beside her.

Robin recoiled and sucked in a deep breath as a mixture of anger and guilt twisted in his breast. It mattered not to him that Rosalie was another man's wife. A marriage to Gisborne could never be sanctioned by a Holy God; it could only ever be a meaningless tract of parchment. But Robin's marriage to Marian, though their vows were never heard by a priest and she was now dead, was binding and eternal. His life was empty because Rosalie's husband had made it so and he could not fill it again.

"Find the message and give it to me," he said, his voice reverting to a distant formality. "I will know what to do and Gisborne will never know of your part in this."

"What if there is no message, no evidence?" She stared at him long and hard.

He looked at his feet. Rosalie could barely suppress the ironic laugh that rose to her throat. This was how it was in this world of men vying for power, for the upper hand. They chose sides and looked for proof to justify themselves. Heroes, villains, kings, and princes all played a game of chance and hoped that they would rise with the winning side. Of course Hood would not give thought to the reality that he was in error. If he was wrong, if there was no message, Rosalie's life would be risked for naught.

"How will this help your men?" Rosalie asked, her fair lips drawing into a cynical line. "He will kill _them_ if _you_ do nothing."

"I have a plan," Robin assured her carelessly, heading for the window.

"And what is that?" she scoffed.

"I don't know," he grinned, and before she could make a sound he was gone.

Rosalie went to the window and looked out into the night, but he was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, they had both known from the beginning that she would not give him up, not when he said Richard's name. She could not risk betraying the only man who said his name in love; she could not chance that Robin was right without being sure.

Would Guy really kill her if she was caught? Surely, if Robin was wrong, she could explain that she was deceived, that she had to be sure for the sake of her cousin. Guy said that would kill her if she betrayed him, but she had no intention of betraying him, only of finding out the truth, whatever that truth may be.


	15. A Woman's Heart

Chapter Fourteen

"A Woman's Heart"

Rosalie sat upon the end the bed, staring aimlessly as the night wind played with the curtains at the window in which Robin Hood's smirking face had last been entire frame trembled and her heart pounded within her breast so quickly that it ached. The decision had already been made for her and she knew well what action she would take, but for these few moments she stood upon the edge in agony. She could always turn back, succumb to her own cowardice and live another day, but the edge sang its siren call and she knew that she would fling herself from it to whatever end awaited her.

For a the briefest moment, the clouds gave way just enough to grant the moon a view of her beloved earth, shining her silver light through the window and bathing Rosalie's skin in white. When she was a child, one of the maids who claimed to know the secrets of the other world told her that her mother was in the moonlight, that when the moon was high the little girl could be sure that her mother was watching her. Rosalie's mother had died giving birth to her and the empty child never stopped trying to find the little pieces of her mother that had been left in this world. Years of catechisms and being warned against the evils of deviltry and speaking with the dead could never truly convince her that her mother was not near when she stood within a moonbeam.

Rosalie breathed deeply. She was terrified, but she had no choice.

* * *

Guy marched the grounds with the air of an overlord, but in reality he was only pretending to have an occupation. Night had set in and Marian's ghost was at every turn as bittersweet and agonizing memories swam through his mind. Tonight, he could not find refuge in drink no matter how his every nerve screamed for it. Hood was in his grasp and he would not let this chance go by. He would not spend the rest of his life with ghosts, he would kill Hood and he would rid his world of the final remembrance of Marian, the final testament that she loved another.

How could a woman's heart be so deceptive? When he loved her, he loved her completely. He could not hide it, he could not feignaffection for another, despite the weeks and months he wanted to with every fibre of his being. Marian had loved Robin Hood, but she had spent over two years making Guy believe that she could love him, that she did love him**. **Was it really all just so she could use him for her cause? Not even Hood was that treacherous; he, at least, wore his true colours for all to see. Until the day he died, Guy knew that he would never be sure where Marian's heart truly was.

He closed his eyes to battle the pain in his breast and saw her walking towards him, her cloak drawn about her shoulders, her clear eyes penetrating his soul. He opened his eyes to escape her, but instead of fading her image kept drawing nearer. He held his breath, willing his eyes to adjust to the witching light, willing the moonlight to shine upon the courtyard and banish this phantom into the shadows, but it did not and Marian came closer until Guy could breathe again.

It was Rosalie.

His relief was quickly replaced with annoyance when she approached him and curtseyed with the decorum of a duchess. Guy could only blame her Angevin roots, a Saxon Englishwoman would be too proud and sensible to treat a country manor like Queen Eleanor's French court. In former days, his vanity would have relished such a reminder that he was married to a woman of high birth, but manners and affectations mattered little to him any more. It was not the appearance of power that concerned him, but the actual possession of it -- and power he had.

"My lord," she greeted, her voice soft and even.

"What do you want, woman?" he growled. "I sincerely hope you have not come to suggest we grant the prisoners comfortable rooms within the manor."

Rosalie set her mouth into a frown, trying to disregard his temper and knowing she would need to handle him with care if she wanted to keep her head upon shoulders.

"Forgive my intrusion, but I need your help on a matter of some importance," she said as calmly as she possibly could. She was grateful that the moon was hidden and that the night hid her bright and wild eyes from his scrutiny.

Without a word, Guy took hold of her arm and guided her beneath the lintel of the stable, away from prying eyes and ears. He crossed his arms and stared coldly, silently informing her to speak quickly and warning her that whatever troubled her had better be worth his time.

"My lord, I am uneasy about certain jewels of mine," she stated. Before he dismiss her in the apparent huff that waited in his raised shoulders she added: "They have been in my family for generations and signify our station and our relation to the crown." The words came out more easily than Rosalie had expected, but then again she was telling the truth and she knew that Guy more than appreciated the importance of communicating to his rivals the extent of his relationship to John. "If this shire is as dangerous as you say-"

"I understand," Guy interjected gruffly. He loosed the laces of his jerkin and shirt, giving no thought to the impropriety of doing so in front of the lady and fished the key out by its chain. "This is to the room at the end of the upstairs corridor. It's perfectly secure." He suppressed a cringe as he remembered the one time it had been breached by the Night Watchman, by Marian. He had stabbed her that night and God only knew how she survived.

He took Rosalie's hand in his and clasped the key in her fist. As he did, the clouds cleared, and the moonlight shone upon her face revealing a dark and sorrowful glint within her eyes. She looked exhausted and worn. Her fingers were like ice in his grasp, but he suspected nothing when her hand trembled in his. She was always uneasy when she was too near to him; his feelings were much the same.

"Thank you, my lord," she replied, gratefully freeing herself from his grip as she did so. She moved to curtsey, but Guy groaned.

"This isn't court, Rosalie," he sneered. "We have neither the time nor leisure to dance through our lives here."

"Forgive me," Rosalie said simply, her voice tired and thin, causing him to start a little. "Goodnight, husband."

She turned in the direction of the manor and as he watched her walk away he called after her.

"Marian!"

Rosalie stopped dead in her tracks and stood motionless with her shoulders rigid about her neck. Guy's face went awash with horror as he realised his mistake.

"Rosalie," he corrected quickly and he moved toward her. She did not move as he drew near, but her emotions shrouded her like a thundercloud. Guy quickly stifled the thought that she had a right to feel hurt: he had never given her a reason to expect any kind of affection from him and she was clever enough to deduce that his heart had died with Marian. Nonetheless, he reached out and put his hand on her arm, turning her to face him.

She sucked in a deep and audible breath through her nostrils, but did not meet his eyes, thank God.

"It is no matter," she said softly, swiftly bringing the issue to an end.

Guy drew very near and spoke low. His neck had tensed, but his eyes and touch lacked the tell-tale signs of anger or distrust. He seemed...cautious, frightened even. It was a long moment before he spoke, but when he did his voice was thick and careful, causing her heart to race in fear that he had somehow found her out.

"Rosalie, do you think you are with child?" he asked, watching her darkened features carefully.

Her eyes darted to and fro as she digested his question and counted the weeks since her last cycle. Her stomach clenched to think that she could be carrying the child of a traitor, of Richard's enemy. Rosalie had always loved children and, like a good Christian girl, she had been taught to desire them from an early age, but she also knew well the dangers of childbirth and that terrified her almost as much as the thought of giving Guy a son to rear. In this Spartan world, sons were taken from their mothers to be made into replicas of their fathers**, **and she could never endure to have a child of hers grow to be as cold and hard as her husband.

"No, my lord," she replied at last. "I do not think so. Forgive me." She hoped he would not detect that she wasnot entirely displeased to have failed him as a wife yet again.

Guy said nothing: he was not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. A child would mean liberation from Rosalie, unless it was stillborn or she dropped a girl, but the only semblance of a parent Guy had known for twenty years was Vasey and he knew no other way to raise a child up than to teach him to be hard and cruel. A part of him said this was the only way to prepare a boy to be a man and to survive, but Marian's voice insisted that there was still good in the world, still good in him.

"I take it you can make your own way back to the house," he mumbled, his tone warning her to get out from under his feet and stay away. "You seem to have no qualms with traipsing all over the grounds."

Rosalie visibly bristled at his menacing timbre, even in the dim light, and turned on her heel toward the house. It was clear she wanted to leave his presence as much as he wanted her to go, but he watched her disappear into the shadows nonetheless. His heart ached as her retreating image reminded him of all the times he had watched Marian walk away. He'd give anything to see her walking towards him once more. He'd give anything to be able to run into her arms.

* * *

Robin reclined comfortably in the chair by the hearth, waiting for Rosalie's return. It was not only bravado that made him unafraid to roam Locksley: Locksley was his home, he had been born in that room as had his father and his father before him. If Gisborne took his life, so be it. He had already taken everything else.

With no small amount of bitterness, Robin imagined what his life might have been if he never gone to the Holy Land, if he only stayed home... as Marian had asked. He imagined that he was once again lord of the manor, that he was sitting by the hearth after a long harvest day, waiting for Marian to come join him by the fireside after she and the rest of the maidservants managed to put their brood of rowdy sons and daughters to bed. He recalled the sweet fragrance of her hair and conjured it up as he envisioned her easing into his lap and kissing him as though reprieve could be found on his lips and he drank deeply from the well of her mouth, savoring the cool, familiar surety of her love.

The heavy door slowly opened and Robin was pulled from his reverie by a clean, unfamiliar scent as Rosalie, not Marian, entered and closed the door behind her. She scarcely regarded him as she went about removing her cloak and busying herself with the arrangement of the room. She had put on her indigo gown once more, but her hair still hung loosely about her shoulders, veiling her profile when she turned away from him until all he could see was the tip of her Angevin nose.

For the first time Robin wondered what would become of her when all of this was over and Gisborne's head mounted a pike in London, but he quickly banished any concern from his mind. Surely Richard would see that she was always cared for and Robin himself would never turn away anyone who came to him in need.

For the briefest of moments, Robin imagined Rosalie as his wife a few years down the road. He envisioned her turning to him in tears and sorrow, seeking, first,refuge from Gisborne and,later, some security in the world. She kept the house well, that was apparent: she was the only member of the Gisborne family who truly belonged in Locksley. She was gentle and would win the love of the serfs who dwelt there. Robin could be comfortable with Rosalie, content even, and could possibly learn to love her **– **which was more than could be said of her current husband.

He remembered the look in Rosalie's eyes as she held the laborer's child in her arms and spoke with his wife. Surely a woman who gave so much love must seek a little for herself.

"Did you find it?" he asked quietly, his features concentrating as his blue eyes glinted in the firelight. His daydreams flew away as reality took hold of him and drew him back to the present.

Rosalie's stiffened, causing Robin to see each vertebra of her spine roll to stand at attention like a snake uncoiling. Her back was to him, but the tension hung thickly in the air and he could sense her emotions.

"I did," she replied, with only the faintest tint of sorrow in her voice.

"Well?" his own voice betrayed that he was not surprised.

"John gave Guy letter to be delivered to the barons once he has disposed of you," Rosalie explained, placing special emphasis on Robin's relation to this pact.

"He assures them that- that..." A white hand rested upon her stomach, trying in dispel the tightness that spread to her throat. She did not think she had any more tears to shed, she thought that she was strong enough, but to say the words proved more painful than to read or even to think them. To say them, gave them life and she would much rather see them smothered in silence. "John assures them that Richard will never return. He says that Richard is-"

She knew he was not dead, or in any case he was not when she left London with her husband who had carried the letter to Nottingham, but she would not even speak such those words.

Robin used his arms to pull himself out the chair and walked up behind her. He was determined to be the perfect hero, to have the solution, and to allay her fears.

"Give it to me," he whispered gently. "I will make everything right, I promise you."

Rosalie turned and brushed past him to retreat to the hearth, far away from where he stood. She never directly faced him, she thought if she did she might scream at him, might wring his neck for shattering what was left of her world.

"I do not have it," she informed him coldly.

"What?" Robinsounded not unlike Guy.

At this, she rounded on him fully, her ire swelling within her breast and giving her the gall to meet him dead-on.

"Rosalie, that letter is evidence of Gisborne's crimes!" Robin hissed, his face reddening as his temper boiled.

"And exactly what good does that do?" she demanded. "Richard is not in England to hear his case, John is the monarchy and the court. If Guy fails to deliver that letter, you and I both know that John will have his head."

"Which is more than he deserves!" Robin retorted.

"And after John has disposed of Guy he will send a worse devil to Nottingham to deal with you," Rosalie continued, ignoring Robin's deaf arguments. "I am sure you know your way out of every mousetrap, but I haven't that luxury. If Guy is killed, I will be passed off to the next of my cousin's 'favourites', and I doubt I will be so fortunate in my next husband as I am with him."

Robin strode across the room so that he was standing to feet away from her and bent his shoulders so that his face was inches from her own.

"This is about your own preservation," he sneered.

"What can you do with that letter that could possibly help to bring Richard home?" Rosalie challenged, meeting his furious eyes with a weary calm. "Nothing, Robin. There is no help for Richard in this scheme. If you want to serve your king, get your men back and do whatever you can to steal that ransom, because if you don't it will never reach Austria. Serve your king, Lord Huntington, not your own vendetta." She took a deep breath and brushed him aside in a gesture of dismissal he recognised in her noble cousin. "Now get out of my room before I scream."

Robin stared knives into her back for a moment, then headed for the window, only to hear her call him back.

She turned and met his blue eyes with her watery ones. She had never looked so afraid or vulnerable, or so determined.

"If you make any attempt against my husband," she warned, her voice trembling with the conviction and indiscernibleemotion with which she spoke, "I will do everything in my power to stop you and do not forget I am the cousin of the two most powerful men in this country: Richard loves me and John hates you."

Without another word, Robin slipped out the window and disappeared into the night, leaving Rosalie in the same state as before: sitting at the edge of her bed, but this time she was free-falling and she wondered if anyone would be there to catch her when she ran out of air.


	16. A Cry in the Darkness

Chapter Fifteen:

A Cry in the Darkness

The problem with having a small army on one's premises is that it makes the noise of one. At every minute men were heard talking, or the dogs barked at some creature in the shadows, and horses whinnied and huffed their displeasure at being kept out at all hours and suffering strangers marching in and out of the stables while they tried to sleep. Guy would have much preferred silence as every little sound piqued his senses. Hood was out there somewhere and Guy would not let him get away. Not again.

Another part of Guy was grateful for the commotion, it kept him awake and it all but drowned out the voice that whispered to him in the silence. For the first time in almost a year, Guy stalked the night and felt as though he were still at one with the living, rather than suffering the company of the dead. He couldn't turn a corner without half-expecting to find her waiting with her coquettish smile, but at least once he was done with it he could continue to function without her face in front of his eyes. Perhaps there was more to being sober than he thought...

The light in the master's chamber had gone out hours ago and he guessed that Rosalie would be asleep by now. He would have to send a message to the house that a maid should check her room soon: such was the unfortunate business of having a lady in the midst of all this. When he made the decision to bring her with him from London, the path seemed to be the only logical one. Before their wedding banquet was half eaten, Lackland had sent one too many lascivious glances in Rosalie's direction and Guy knew that she was too stalwart and too innocent to give in to her dear cousin. He did not appreciate the idea of his wife, the only thing in he truly owned, being tainted by his master, but he knew that it would be his neck if she did not go willingly to the royal bed and his pride had never been dearer than his life.

Then, of course, there was the matter of Edmund Anjou. Anjou was as treacherous as Vasey, if not quite so clever. His advantage was his property in England and in the Plantagenet motherland, France. If Guy had left Rosalie behind, she would be certain to become his next trump card. She was always silent and obedient in the presence of her father, but more than once Guy had caught a look in her eyes that mirrored his own feelings when in the company of Nottingham's infamous sheriff. Anjou would throw her at John without compunction. When John had used her, she would be of no more use and probably sent to a draughty lodge and kept out of sight, unless Guy should send for her. And Guy knew himself well enough to realise that if he allowed himself the liberty to leave her once, he would never want to have her back.

Yes, it was better to have Rosalie in Nottingham. She would never give in to John, which would not bode well for her husband, and Guy would not let Anjou regain the pawn he had been all too willing to relinquish last spring. What was more, Guy had given Rosalie his word and he had promised himself that he would not let her be caught up in men's games. As a married woman, she could be of no real use to any of them, save perhaps to Guy in the unlikely event that Richard returned and John was struck down. Her love for her kingly cousin was nauseatingly apparent, as was her Christian faithfulness to her hateful husband. She could bargain for Guy's life, though he doubted it would ever be necessary. In the hands of Anjou and John, Rosalie was nothing more than a trinket: easily broken, easily swept aside.

Guy wished it were that simple: break Rosalie and be rid of her. She was too pliable to be broken; when he turned red with anger, she turned white with fear. If he was cold and cruel, she was calm and humble. When he denied her the tiniest scrap of affection she deserved in their unholy marriage bed, she asked him to teach her how to please him. In truth, Guy's mind burned with the harsh reality that Rosalie could never please him: she could never be Marian. She could not please a corpse and that was all he would ever really be: a body without a soul and without a heart. Marian held both.

At last, for one moment the night was still and Guy welcomed the silence that came washing over him with trepidation. Her words were sure to find their way into his ear before long, but Guy did not hear Marian's sweet voice taunt him with promises and lies. It would be many hours before her voice would find its way across the Great Divide once more: it was replaced by a scream that came tearing through the night, chilling the blood in Guy's veins and shattering the silence like glass. He turned quickly toward the manor house just seconds before a light appeared in the window.

Rosalie.

* * *

The clamor of anxious young girls and barking goodwives could not drown out the thunder of heavy boots tearing up the stairs. The door, which was already open, hit the wall with a crack that boded an ugly splintering and annoyance for the steward in the morning, but for now all eyes and thoughts were fixed only upon surviving the night without being cast out of the house or whipped. The mistress continued to cry out in pain, though she made a brave effort to fight against it, but she did little to abate the master's concerns.

"Stand aside!" Guy bellowed, immediately causing the younger maids to disperse. Those closest to the door quickly abandoned their mistress and their confederates in favour of getting as far away from Gisborne as possible.

The lord of the manor paid them no heed, they could be of little help as it was, and his focus was already arrested by the scene upon his bed.

Rosalie sat upright, sweat pasted her shift to her skin and her face as white as the sheets that had been thrown off the bed to reveal the spreading stain between her legs and over the mattress.

"What has happened?" Guy demanded, rounding to the other side of the bed where his wife was huddled for closer examination. Her skin was hot to the touch.

"I do not know, my lord," the oldest and bravest goodwife answered.

Guy turned to the first person he saw, a girl of about fifteen years who had slowly been trying to creep toward the door.

"Don't just stand there!" he shouted, "Fetch a doctor!"

"There is no doctor, sir," the first goodwife answered. "The sheriff had him sent to the mines to pay his debts."

"Find a midwife then," he seethed. "Surely she would know something of this."

"The midwife was a..." the goody coughed. "A witch, my lord."

Guy suddenly remembered that last year the sheriff had accused the midwife of necromancy and ducked her in Locksley Pond. The woman had disappeared, most likely due to Hood's intervention, but the more superstitious people in the shire were convinced that it had been some form of deviltry. In any case, Guy was unsure whom he should damn next: Hood, Vasey, or the idiotic peasants who had not seen fit to train up a replacement for their fallen healer. Leave it to Hood to not only remove Matilda from Nottingham, but her daughter as well, leaving no one to take her place. That was his way: to act first and let others face the consequences.

Rosalie had not spoken in all this while, she simply clutched at the bloodstained sheets and tried to fight back her groans. Suddenly, she doubled over, letting out a cry as she did. In the next moment, Guy bolted from the room and flew down the stairs even more quickly than he had come charging up them only moments earlier, leaving his wife upon their bed, weeping in her own blood.

* * *

The outlaws' eyes had slowly grown accustomed to the darkness of their make-shift cell. John would have preferred to sleep, Alan to sulk, and Tuck to silently contemplate some means of escape, but Much gave his fears and worries the tongue and rein to go where ever they pleased. In two hours, he had scarcely shut up, save for a few minutes at the irritated insistence of his comrades. Talking was Much's way of coping with conflict, with everything really. Tuck schooled his thoughts to shut out the clamor and to be understanding and patient as Christ taught, but Much could try the patience of a saint and Tuck was far from saintly.

"Do you think Lady Gisborne will bring more bread in the morning?" That was the first remotely positive sentence to pass Much's lips all day, but it only gained him the groans of John and Alan.

"How can you think of food in a time like this?" Alan whined.

"Well," Much huffed, "we're going to die anyway, they could at least have the decency and honour to feed us. Besides that bread was good. Has Locksley got a new cook? What happened to Gwyn?"

Tuck smiled to himself. At least Much had found a train of thought that would keep his mind off their, thus far, inevitable demise.

"Locksley has a new lady," Alan explained, irony lacing his voice. "What in God's name Gisborne did to deserve a bride, I'll never know. I'll give him till spring before he-"

Alan stopped himself and it took Tuck a moment to understand why. He had not known Marian, but her memory was still fresh and precious to the gang. Much had known her from childhood, John adored her, and Alan had owed her his life. What was more, she had been the wife and love of their leader and the gang was nothing if not fiercely loyal. Over the years, they had come to share in each other's triumphs and losses. Losing Marian had entwined their lives all the more.

The door opened with a crack and torchlight flooded the barn, silhouetting the dark figure of their captor as he stormed through the threshold. Much paled instantly, certain that they had reached the end, but determined to face it bravely. He tried to look fearless, but only ended up looking silly, but that was of no matter as no one paid him any notice. Nothing Guy could say or do would ever faze Allan A' Dale, who knew the man's moods probably better than Lady Gisborne, and Tuck had the gentle assurance that with God at his side no evil could befall him.

"Are you really a priest or do you just masquerade as one?" Guy bellowed, casting the light upon Tuck's face.

"I took my vows in Aquitaine many years ago, my son," Tuck replied calmly, looking up into the black knight's furious eyes with the countenance of a benevolent parent.

"Do you know anything of medicine?" demanded Gisborne.

"I know a great deal," he answered. "Is someone ill?"

Guy did not answer, turning instead to the henchman at his shoulder, the same hapless man who had left Rosalie's side.

"Untie him!" he barked, "Take him to the manor house."

Neither the soldier nor the prisoner moved fast enough for Guy's liking and he was soon bellowing for them to get a move on if they wanted to keep their heads. The henchman was certain his master was not bluffing and did all he could to pull Tuck to his feet propel him toward the door. In no time at all, they were gone.

Allan was intrigued. It was unlike Gisborne to think on his feet, not in this way. The sheriff was the one who was foolish enough to use the resources at hand, but Guy had always preferred to put people in particular boxes and leave them there: enemies were enemies, not people to ask for help in times of trouble. Allan could only wonder whose life could be so important that Guy would break all typical modes of thought and action to save it.

* * *

When the men had returned to the house, Rosalie's screams were echoing through the hall, sending both Guy and Tuck up the stairs as quickly as they could. The chamber was now less crowded as the maids had been dispersed and Rosalie sat in the bed, clenching the sheets in her fists, her face contorted in pain and her knees pulled up to her chest. If Guy did not know better, he would say she was...

Tuck had brushed past his captor and was soon pulling back the covers the two remaining goodwives had placed over Rosalie to protect her modesty. He did not blanch at the bloodstained sheets, he had already smelt the sharp copper upon entering the room.

"Sir Guy," his voice resonated, breaking through the cloud that hung over the younger man's face. "I must examine your wife."

"He is a demon!" shrieked the oldest goody and the other looked equally scandalized at the very idea.

"Get out, you old bat!" Guy snapped and both women scurried to obey him. The last old woman to cross those the sheriff and his man was ducked and they did not want to share that fate. They could not have known that Guy was no longer under the sheriff's employ, but it was just as well that they feared his power, for he might have them put in the stocks or worse if Rosalie died.

Left alone, Guy only had a moment to consider the Moor's request. He could guess well enough what was meant by "examine." A hot flash of jealousy bathed his face as he thought of another man touching what was his, but he quickly suppressed the animal within when he looked at the young woman writhing in agony upon his bed.

"Do what you must, priest," he said.

"Guy..." Rosalie's voice was strangled in pain even as the chaste maiden protested.

Tuck inwardly cursed: the one fault of virtue was foolishness. Before he could soothe her with gentle tones and assurances that all was well, her husband crossed to the bed and leaned down to speak.

"Chastity is not worth your life," Guy said thickly in a tone that could not be identified.

Rosalie closed her eyes in acquiescence and Tuck moved to lift her gown. He had to ascertain whether the bleeding was intestinal or if it came from her womb before he could proceed any further. He was saddened to discover that it was the latter.

"Well?" Guy asked when he thought the priest had seen enough to give a diagnosis.

"I am sorry," Tuck said softly, looking up to meet Guy's eyes with his own, "but Lady Gisborne has lost a child."

Guy stared in shock. "She is not with child." He did not know whence came the words.

"No," the priest agreed sadly, "not anymore. -We must stanch the bleeding."

Guy looked down at Rosalie. Her face was pale and drawn. Her half-lidded eyes betrayed her exhaustion, but the pain would not let her sleep. He had seen enough battle fields to know that if she continued to lose blood the pain would dull along with her senses. She would sink under the heavy weight of her eyes and disappear into the darkness. He thought of Marian as she laid in the sands of Acre, with his sword sheathed in her stomach. If Rosalie died, she would join her and he did not think he could endure another ghost at his shoulder.

"Stay awake," he forced his voice to speak the words and forced his hand to take hold of hers.

Her eyes flew open and her deep breath gave proof of the effort it took on her part to do that much. She gazed up into his eyes and he could see tears gather within hers. This time she did not penetrate his soul and he did not want to turn away, he did not need to shut her out, she did not seek admittance.

"Forgive me," she whispered. Her voice trembled from weariness and some other emotion he did not care to discover. He assumed it was fear that he would blame her and sorrow that she had lost her baby.

Guy reached down and brushed the hair away from her dampened brow. He could feel the callouses on his fingertips chafe against her smooth skin and smelt the salt from her sweat and metallic acridness of her blood. Ever since he had first lain eyes on her, he had seen her as something surreal, some physical epitome of everything that he was not: innocent, good, and pure. He knew that her scent would linger on him when he left that room. For the first time, Rosalie was literally flesh and blood, not a portrait of a noblewoman or saintly maiden. She was as real and as human as he.

"You could not have known," he said lowly. "You are not to blame."

He never knew how truly he spoke.

He felt her grip on his hand tighten and strengthened his arm so that she could pull against him. One way or another, it would all be over soon. The priest worked quickly and Guy averted his eyes. There was nothing beautiful in the sight of Rosalie's soft, white thighs stained with blood and glistening in sweat. At the moment, there was nothing beautiful about Rosalie at all. Her face was pale and wan, her hair was matted and soaked with sweat, and her eyes were hazy with fever.

After what seemed like hours, Tuck wiped his hands with a stained cloth and declared that the worst was over.

Guy let out a heavy sigh he did not realise he had hailed back. Rosalie seemed calmer, but so weak. Every time he looked at her, he saw Marian. Marian helpless upon her bed two days after he had stabbed her, Marian dying in the sand... It didn't matter what, any pain she suffered had always been at his hand.

Her hand slipped away from his, too weary to hold on any longer. Tuck said that she ought to be changed and laid in a clean mattress.

Guy looked down at her again. She was too weary to even speak, but her fever robbed her of any real rest. She started mumbling about Hood and Richard. It was nothing distinct and attributed it to the events of the day.

He kept one eye on the priest as he went to the door and ordered the soldier standing guard to fetch the mattress from the spare room, then closed the door once more.

"She should have a clean shift in the trunk," he said, gesturing to the chest at the foot of the bed. He was not about to turn his back on the prisoner. "Get it out."

Tuck obeyed and selected the only he saw that did not have lace at the collar of cuffs. He guessed that the trousseau had been a royal wedding present, part of her dowry. He learned of her father, Edmund Anjou, when he was in Aquitaine where it was well known the man cared nothing for his daughter.

Guy received the shift and when the Moor's back was turned, proceeded to peel the filthy linen from his wife's skin. She was barely conscious and her fever had not broken yet. It was the first time he had ever undressed her, but that meant nothing to him. She was like a doll or an infant: the act was purely perfunctory, much like their coupling.

Before Guy had finished, pounding was heard at the door and a part of him thought that he would flog the guard if Rosalie flew into hysterics from the start it gave to the room's occupants. He hurried to finish and as soon as his wife was covered he bellowed admittance.

The door was opened and Tuck moved to help with the changing of mattresses while Guy gathered Rosalie in his arms like a lamb. Her weary head fell upon his shoulder as her brow sought the cool comfort of his neck. The other men were too busy with their task notice Sir and Lady Gisborne; the knight and lady certainly did not notice them.

Rosalie let out a sound that was half a sigh and half a moan. He knew that the worst was not over. There was still a possibility of infection, in fact the fever was a great indicator of that. It would have made no difference to him had Rosalie fallen ill or been thrown from her horse: those were factors Guy had no control over or any responsibility for. But this... This was because she was carrying his child and he had dragged her in a hot carriage all the way from London. She had barely eaten or slept in over a fortnight and as the crowning glory of his nuptial achievements, she had barely settled at Locksley before he rutted her like a broodmare.

He had come to Nottingham to kill Hood, not Rosalie. He was weary of being a monster.


	17. Drive Them Out

Chapter Sixteen

Drive Them Out…

Tuck watched carefully as Gisborne laid his wife down upon the fresh mattress. The adversaries worked in tandem for the comfort of the patient: Tuck found the clean sheets and blankets just as Guy reached for them, Guy evicted the clumsy soldier before Tuck could insist upon his removal from the room, and Rosalie blinked and turned her head as she wandered that strange world between dreams and wakefulness.

"Richard," she gasped, arresting the attention of both men, "come home… come back…"

"Peace, my child," Tuck soothed, sitting down upon the bed and taking her hand in his. Her pulse was quickening and her fever was rising. "Be still, child," he said gently, "all will be right. Rest, my lady."

"Is it brain fever?" Guy demanded, fixing his gaze upon the Moorish priest.

Tuck shook his head calmly as he rose from the bed.

"She has lost a great deal of blood, she is exhausted, and her fever is making her a little delirious," he replied thinly. He knew she would be well with a little valerian to break her fever and put her to sleep. That is when the door opened before his eyes and the way out came as clearly as the midday sun. "My lord, she needs medicine. It is likely the ingredients I need for it are in the kitchen."

Guy turned from the priest to Rosalie. Her eyes had finally closed and her head seemed to sink into the pillow as her mind slipped into slumber. For a moment, he considered the likelihood that she may never open those eyes again, yet only an instant later her eye-lids fluttered back and she tried to sit up with a gasp, but was caught back by Tuck's hands upon her shoulders. When she began to weep, to audibly weep, from the pain and some other unknown demon that plagued her, he relented.

Rosalie could not be left alone, so he called for the guard to escort Tuck to the kitchens and see that he be given whatever he needed. If anything was not found in the kitchen, then it had better be searched for elsewhere. His lady's life depended upon it and so did his.

The two men were quickly dispatched and Guy was left alone with the invalid. Rosalie had often proven herself to be vulnerable at times. He had seen her tears often, but she had never been witless or entirely defenseless in all the months she had been in his life.

"Guy…" Her voice sounded truly helpless and, try though he might, he could no more shut it out than he could Marian's.

For a moment, he stood staring down into the dark eyes that looked up at him in askance. At length, her white arm was raised, the effort on her part evidenced by the lines upon her brow, and her hand reached out for him. He had already taken hold of her hand once on this hapless night, but he had done that on instinct, not consciously. If he took her hand, he would be connected to her; she would take hold of him and seek that which he had lost long ago.

Guy stalked toward the window, turning his back on Rosalie and leaving her hand and her bed empty.

* * *

The only person in Locksley who was unaware that Gwyn, the manor's cook for the past three decades, was blind was Sir Guy. He only visited the kitchen looking for drink when the rest of the household was asleep and her cooking was unrivalled so he let her continue without argument. With her sight impaired, Gwyn's other senses were keen from necessity, especially that sixth sense so common in the weaker sex. She had heard the screams from the master's chamber and the whispers of the maids. She had knew enough of life to guess what had happened and had begun to brew a remedy for fever and for sleep, whilst keeping the giant cauldron of stew for Gisborne's army hot and full.

She had heard that the priest tending the lady was a Moor, whatever that may be, but she knew good and well that the only demons in that house were hanging on the master's back, and the old master's as well. She knew Robin was there somewhere: she had chased him out of her kitchen since he was small and could always sense when he was near. Every time he returned from the Holy Land, he came back a little more tainted with the evils of this world. It was no matter, though. Lady Rosalie was an angel: she would beat back a hundred demons, even her own. Everything would be set aright soon.

When Tuck entered the kitchen, she had her back to him, but she knew his smell was different. He smelled of Sherwood to be sure, but there was a scent from some faraway place she could not name. He was not from the Holy Land, both Robin and Sir Guy had returned from it twice, but it was very like it. She knew he was honest and strong and that his soul was right: that was enough for her.

"There's some vandal root and chamomile tea on t' table," she informed him. "A' steeped it in dried apples, an' mint, an' 'oney to give't taste. Not much 'elps vandal root."

"Vandal root?" Tuck asked raising his brows as the lady never stopped her work.

"It's 'angin' above ye head, child," she chided.

Tuck glanced up at the dried herbs hanging from the rafters and took a familiar bunch down. The foul smell was unmistakable, even for a novice. He supposed that it would benefit him to know that the locals called valerian, which had too many names to keep track of, vandal root. It would put Lady Gisborne to sleep and help with her cramps. He would not have thought to mix in the fruit or the mint, though. It seemed kinder, however, after all she had been through to spare her the foul taste of valerian root.

"Why were you not asked to care for Lady Gisborne?" he inquired.

Gwyn turned with a broad, wrinkled smile and Tuck saw the answer to his question in her blank eyes. There was mirth in them and life upon her face, but he knew she could not see him as less than her equal and why others would never quite see her as theirs.

"Thornton won't let me out of t'kitchen," she laughed. " 'e thinks new master'll turn me out. These bones are too old to start o'er again. I'm not much use but to cook, anyhow. I made the brews that kept young Robin livin' long enough to make enemies o' sheriff. I can keep Lady Gisborne alive through winter, ye can be sure."

Tuck smiled and stepped toward her. He could smell the stew upon entering the room and he saw the cauldron in the hearth. He knew thing or two about angels and demons himself and he knew that he had found the former. He hoped he could find an ally in Rosalie, but she could be of no help tonight. God had clearly sent another helper.

"God bless you, mother," he said softly, pressing his holy lips to her aged brow with reverence and pressing her hand in his.

"God bless ye, my son," Gwyn replied, pressing her white hand to his dark cheek and smiling up at him. She gave him a loving pat and he stepped back feeling more renewed than he would had he received a benediction from the Holy Mother herself. He had not been called "son" in years, certainly not by a woman.

Tuck left, taking the tea and a jug of wine with him. He knew he could trust her to do what was needed and he knew she would be safe. In the meantime, his patient had need of him, and aged fingers clenched the small vial securely.

* * *

Robin waited in the darkness. It was consuming him, feeding him, and giving him breath. The light was gone and he could not find it again. He was not sure he wanted to. He did not care what influence Rosalie may wield over her cousins, he did not care whether a single soul lived until the dawn, as long as Gisborne's flesh fed maggots before the sunrise.

What did it matter anymore who sat on what throne? The people had always suffered and the people would continue to suffer. Could he really fight every tyrant that came along? Who would fight them off when Robin Hood was dead? It was futile to fight against evil when it had become the very fabric of the world.

He had seen it in the Holy Land, first in his own crimes, then in losing Marian. He knew that it was in him, waiting and wanting. Perhaps that is why he lost her: as punishment for sins he had committed on that soil. Marian had been his life and she was gone. He was not even sure he had a soul anymore. What did it matter what he did now?

_Robin…Keep fighting…_

* * *

Tuck was surprised to find Guy staring at the hearth on the far side of the room while Rosalie had rolled onto her side and drawn her knees up gently upon the bed. She did not move for the pain, but silent tears raced down her pale cheeks and her eyes were bloodshot. He wondered for a moment if some deeper pain plagued her. Her husband had scarcely left her side during the worst of the miscarriage: it was odd that he would forsake her side now when she needed nothing more than a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

Ever the priest, Tuck leant over her form and laid his hand upon her head in blessing and affection. Christ did not intend for us to live untouched or alone and he would not leave her in solitude. Once he had finished giving his benediction, he helped her to sit up and lifted the cup to her lips.

"Give it here," Guy barked.

Tuck looked up to see the outstretched hand of the black knight and followed the path of the leather-clad arm to the black face that glared down at him. Tuck handed the cup over peacefully.

"It is vandal root and chamomile," he said plainly. "It will help her sleep."

"What's that smell?"

"Vandal root is foul," Tuck grimaced, "but effective."

Guy scowled, but decided that it would not bode well for him if Prince John's cousin died in his care. Of course, Rosalie's wellbeing meant less to the prince than it did to her husband, but John loved nothing more than to look for reasons to hate those around him. He passed the cup back to the priest and stood watching like a hawk ready for the kill.

Tuck was patient and let Rosalie drink at her own pace. It surprised him that Guy had not shown a hint of jealousy at the sight of another man holding his wife. He had understood Gisborne to be the possessive kind, but there was no trace of that in his actions regarding Rosalie. But then, Guy's thoughts were evidently far away from Rosalie.

When the last drop had been drained, Tuck gently laid her head back upon the pillow and went to prepare a compress for her brow. Guy turned and watched her turn her head upon her pillow; her eyes were shut and her face was pale. She opened them for a moment and looked up at him, then above his head, and fell back into slumber.

He felt his throat catch and his flew up to wipe his mouth in agitation. Not once had he seen Rosalie in that moment, not even when her dark eyes had opened. He saw Marian as she had been that morning on the day before their wedding. Was she tormenting him for the few moments in which he had dared to forget her? Was she accusing him of being the cause of Rosalie's pain as he had been of hers? Either way she was not wrong.

"You could use a drink," Tuck observed coolly as he resumed his seat by Rosalie's side and proceeded to bathe her brow.

Guy snorted, but looked about the room nonetheless. He caught sight of the pitcher Tuck had brought from the kitchen. One glass to dull his headache would do no harm. He could not face Vasey with this current stab of guilt, he certainly would be no match to requite Hood's self-righteous accusations in this state. He needed something to drive Marian…and Rosalie out.


	18. What Dreams May Come

Chapter Seventeen

What Dreams May Come…

Orrick was officially experiencing the worst day of his life. First, he was dragged all the way up from the warm and sunny south of England to the damp, cold north. Then he gets roped into playing Lady Gisborne's errand boy by none other than Sir Gisborne when he'd been promised that he'd see little of the blackguard during the whole expedition. A fire breaks out and he tries to do his duty, but only gets a clap about his ears for leaving the lady unattended with tied criminals. Finally, Lady Bleeding-heart takes ill and his neck depends on whether or not the Moorish outlaw can manage to save her.

He was never more grateful than when his relief came and he was free to spend a few hours with a pint of ale, a hot bowl of stew, and with any luck manage to sleep through the rest of the night. Unless of course, Good Lady Merciful should join the angels and Gisborne remember that he promised to hang him if she did, or if Robin Hood should manage to rescue his gang and steal all of Gisborne's money -which Orrick did not doubt would become his fault as well.

Whatever the case, hours of being on duty made Orrick's first priority a visit to the latrine.

Locksley as an estate, was unprepared to accommodate Gisborne's horde in more ways than one. Some of the men were lodged in the old barn while the rest, including Orrick, were forced to sleep in tents or under the stars. Another way in which Locksley proved lacking was in sanitation. Farmhands, village boys, and spare soldiers had been set to digging new latrines, under the Lady Gisborne's orders, but they were situated beyond the grounds where the smell would not sicken the serfs or those at the manor. Orrick did not like the walk or the dark, but the law had been laid down and it seemed that where ever he turned, that old buzzard, Thornton, was glaring under his silvery brows.

The trek was made as quickly as possible, as the urgency grew. His heart sank when he felt the tap on his shoulder. Assuming it was one of his comrades come to summon him back to the manor house, he turned to tell the pest to sod off, but he only saw one flash of a smile before everything went black.

* * *

Guy's legs began to feel like lead. The night was wearing on and his boots were heavy and his eyelids heavier. He drank more wine and paced the room. He did not look at Rosalie; he only saw Marian when he did and her voice was swimming in his mind, driving him mad. His pace began to feel like a long and weary march, made all the worse when the sound of Rosalie whimpering carried over the sound of his own footfalls or when he accidentally caught sight of her hapless form on the bed.

She had almost been pretty once, but now she looked more like a ghost than the visions of Marian that haunted him did. She looked old and haggard yet hopelessly childish at once, boding that if she did survive tonight it would take something much stronger than mead to entice Guy to get another child on her. He felt trapped: if she lived, she would continue to be his responsibility, he would have to endure her eyes seeking out the evils within his, and, if she died, her blood would be on his hands as well.

When he returned to England last spring, he felt so very certain of he wanted. John gave him the means to seek his revenge against Vasey and Hood, he gave him power and status, and even made him a member of the royal family. He thought the bride would be spoilt, selfish, and haughty like her cousin and father. He thought she would be as tainted, if not corrupted, by the world as they were. He did not expect the sweet innocent he found in his bed on the wedding night.

Guy stumbled and fell to his knees. He would have fallen on his face, if the Moor had not caught him and hauled him to his feet.

"What you need, my son," muttered a low, smooth voice, "is a good long sleep and an even longer prayer."

"God will not hear me," Guy rasped, his tongue thick and his eyes glazing over as Tuck dragged him across the room. "Can you not see I live in hell?"

Guy felt himself thrown on his back and looked up into Tuck's unreadable expression.

"That is why God has sent an angel to guide you home," he said softly.

Guy turned his head and saw the mound created by Rosalie's knees under the sheet. Beyond that her dark, tear-filled eyes stared into his, then she disappeared into darkness.

* * *

Tuck reached down and felt Guy's pulse, then his breath.

"You killed him," Rosalie's broken voice whispered as fresh tears spilled from her eyes.

Tuck shook his head and knelt so that his face was level with hers. He hated to believe that her calamity had been an act of God, but her miscarriage had enabled him to take this action to save the gang, Robin, and ultimately England. It was too opportune to be chance, but for innocent Rosalie to lose and endure so much in one night was cruel. He pressed his hand to her warm brow and looked gently into her brimming eyes.

"He is only asleep," he assured her. "He will wake with a splintering headache in the morning, you will have to be patient with him. You, my lady, must rest for several days. It may be well over a fortnight before you begin to feel like yourself again." He cleared his throat. "I do not know how difficult this may be, but you must also abstain from your marriage bed until you have fully recovered. Is that possible, or should I leave potion to... curb his appetite a while?"

Rosalie felt heat flood her cheeks and shook her head. Guy never seemed as keen as the bawdier men at court were said to be when it came to his husbandly rites. In many ways, she was grateful for his lack of interest; yet, before tonight, she had been wounded by it as well. After all, he never seemed to want her for anything. Now she did not think she could ever endure to lie with him again.

"He is a traitor," she said softly, staring at the sleeping face before her. "He is Richard's enemy."

"He is what life has made him," Tuck replied. "But he also hates who he has become and, as long as that fire burns inside of him, there is hope. Show him kindness, Rosalie, even when he is unkind. Forgive him, as you hope to be forgiven. He is as alone in this world as you are, after all."

With that, Tuck placed a kiss of peace upon her brow, and told her to sleep.

"All will be well, my child," he promised. "God will work all things for His glory."

Rosalie closed her eyes and shut out the world as the priest crept out of the room. She wondered if she could lie to Guy in the morning when he asked her what happened. In that moment, the death he had promised her seemed a desirable respite from the ache in her belly, her head, and her heart.

* * *

Robin soon discovered that his purloined livery was a little too large about the waist and had to work a new notch into the belt, but otherwise he was confident in his disguise, provided Rosalie remained cloistered in the manor house. He doubted whatever illness plagued her would not keep Gisborne confined to her side for long, but it could afford him enough time to get his men, assuming he could work out the next step of his developing plan.

He was surprised at the silence as he drew nearer the house. It was as still as death and for a moment his eyes went to the second storey window where and found it still lit. Robin's breath caught at the thought that the only light in that room could be candlelight. If Rosalie died, would he be the one responsible? Somehow he knew, if she was gone, he would her carry her coffin too, as he did Marian's. He had put her in a dangerous position and had not come running when he heard her scream. Did that make him a coward?

Robin couldn't see the guards and that worried him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he looked for any possible sign that he was walking into a trap. When he drew near enough to make out the shapes in the darkness, Robin could see dark mounds lying on the ground or propped up against walls. He stopped in his tracks and felt his heart skip. -Could it be an epidemic?

Steeling his nerves and accepting the fact that if it were, he was dead already given his attire, he drew near one of the soldiers and knelt to inspect him. He was sound asleep: the sound of snoring that slowly came to his ears was a strong indication that they were all asleep.

"What the devil is going on here?" he muttered to himself.

Robin moved cautiously toward Locksley's make-shift gaol, still aware that this smelt like one of Vasey's more clever tricks and that dogs learn from their masters when all is said and done. Still, there was nothing as everyone slept soundly. Gisborne had not put guards at the shed, aware that doing so would be just as effective as putting up a sign that read, "Outlaws for Rescue." Now, with the entire estate and army fast asleep Robin's job was all the easier.

He grasped the plank that held the door in place and made to lift it, still moving quietly so as not to wake the pack of wolves surrounding him. That's when he felt the wind void out of his lungs as he was thrown back first against the door by an iron grip at his throat.

"Robin?"

The grip was loosed and Robin re-focused his eyes in the dim torchlight.

"Tuck!"

"What are you doing here?" both men demanded in unison.

"You're supposed to be in there," Robin hissed, jerking his head in the direction of the shed.

"And you're supposed to be keeping yourself out of Gisborne's clutches," Tuck retorted.

"_I am_," Robin smirked, and both men moved to lift the plank and open the door. The details as to the how and why of their two missions would have to wait until a more convenient time.

"Gentleman," Robin declared with a grin, "this is a rescue."

"And about bloody time, at that," Allan scoffed, rolling his eyes as Tuck and Robin moved to untie their bonds.

"Thank the Lord you're alright, master," Much sighed.

"You're one to talk," Robin teased.

"What happened with Gisborne?" Allan asked, standing and rubbing his wrist.

"They're all dealt with," Tuck replied gravely.

Robin stared at Tuck wide-eyed and incredulous. In the few months the priest had been with the gang, he had surprised even Robin with lengths he was willing to go for the greater good. He knew something horrible had happened at Locksley that night and he felt, once more, the stab of fear. Whether that fear stemmed from the thought that Rosalie had been made the victim of justice or that Tuck had denied him the satisfaction of killing Gisborne, he could not tell.

"Lady Gisborne is ill," Tuck explained quickly, "They used me as a healer and I had the cook put a sleeping potion in the stew. Now let's get out of here."

"You said it," Allan quipped, clapping an unresponsive Robin on the shoulder as Little John led the way out the door.

The gang slipped out into the night. Much, in his eagerness took up the lead and Allan was at his heels. Some things would never change: freedom snatched from the jaws of certain death made the night air that much sweeter and life all the more vivid. In former days, they would have leapt with joy on the steps of Nottingham Castle, but the Holy Land had made them all a little older. Victory was not always so easy and they were more aware of that now.

Suddenly, John sensed something was amiss and turned around.

"Where is Robin?" he asked thickly, stopping the rest of the gang in their tracts.

Tuck came very near swearing, Allan rolled his eyes, and Much stared into the darkness where Robin should have stood.

"Oh, brilliant…" Much sighed.

* * *

Rosalie awoke to the sound of the door hinges creaking and sat up, watching the secretive oak until the intruder should reveal himself. For a moment, she thought of taking Guy's sword from its sheath on his belt, but she was not certain she would have the time to seize it, much less the strength to hold the heavy steel blade and heavier hilt.

She was almost too weary to be surprised by the sight of Robin Hood walking into the chamber, but for the black look on his face, the same look that shadowed his features the first day she saw him. At first, they stared at each other, as if they were both in search of something to say. Robin was challenging her, mocking her with her promise to protect her husband from him. Rosalie was not so sure she wanted to stop Robin. After all, Guy would do anything in his power to prevent the one thing she wanted: Richard's return.

Then she looked at Guy out of the corner of her eye and in the next moment, her body was spread over his. Robin could not strike him, not mortally, without first cutting through Rosalie and she knew he could never do that. She knew who he saw when he looked at her.

"Rosalie, move," Robin hissed, his sword clenched in his hand, ready to be thrust into Gisborne's breast the moment his lady was safely removed.

"I will not, Robin," she said softly, wondering if her racing heart could be enough wake her sleeping husband. She felt tears sting her eyes and her throat tighten, but she clung tighter to Guy, bracing herself against him with every last ounce of strength she had.

Robin's heart and courage sank when he saw the stain on Rosalie's nightdress and the sheets. Her dark, bloodshot eyes looked up at him, pleading and watery, as her pale brow beaded with feverish sweat. He felt his own eyes sting and his sword was becoming heavy. He could not go through Rosalie to get to Gisborne, he could not even fight her off of him, for fear that doing so would kill her.

"He killed my wife, Rosalie," he said in a broken voice.

Rosalie looked up into his face, into his sorrowful eyes and her heart broke for him. She could feel his emptiness and his pain with one look, a pain she knew her own husband felt for Marian and would never feel for her, but she remained steadfast.

"Then take your justice," she whispered, fighting to keep her body from trembling. "Kill _his wife." _

She buried her face in Guy's hair to hide her tears from Robin. It was not death she feared, but the path she had chosen. Rosalie had chosen Guy. She had chosen to protect a man she did not know and did not love, a man who had only brought sorrow into her already sad life. She knew that she would spend the rest of her life between Guy and the point of a blade, that her heart would soon be placed in the hands of a man who would only ever break it.

When at last she looked up, Robin was gone, as she knew he would be. She had always known he would never harm her, and, with a sigh of contentment, weariness, and great discomfort, she pulled herself back to her pillow and sent up a prayer, though she knew not what she prayed for.


	19. Downpour

Chapter Eighteen

Downpour

Guy awoke to the sound of rain coming down upon the roof in torrents. He had wondered how long it would take before nature remembered that this was England and blocked out the sun. When his eyes opened, his vision blurred and his head felt as though it had been split open with a mace. His muscles ached and his skin felt clammy from having spent the night fully dressed. He replayed the events he could remember… Rosalie crying out in pain, burning with a fever, the priest….

Guy sat upright with such speed he thought he might retch, but the urgency of the situation outweighed his body's desires. The window and the door were both wide open, and Rosalie lay with her eyes closed. Her face was still ashen and, for a moment, he considered the possibility that she had not survived the night. He slowly edged his way up the bed, his eyes fixed on her face for some sign of life, but she was still. He let out a heavy sigh of relief when at last he touched her face and felt the softness of her skin. Her fever had broken and she was sleeping in relative peace.

His relief was short-lived as the more pressing matter concerning the whereabouts of his prisoner took precedence over the wife who was not going to die after all. He placed his hand on Rosalie's shoulder and shook as gently as he could muster with the ever-growing trepidation. He called her name, willing her to rejoin the waking world and, when she looked up at him, he firmly shut out the memories of Marian.

"Where is the Moor?" he demanded, his voice thick and low from a night of drinking.

"I do not know," she replied. It was the truth and she was exhausted: Guy could easily see both.

He set his jaw and stood. It took more will than he had wagered on to keep reins on his temper for the sake of the patient. She had bled more during the night and the stain on the sheets stood as a stark reminder as to how he had nearly killed her, however indirectly. In any case, his headache protested at each murderous thought that came to his mind and it was highly probable that someone had seen fit to take the priest back to the cell, then his raging would be for naught and he would suffer the most from it.

"I will send a maid to look after you," he said absently, taking care not to look in her direction.

Guy moved to walk away, but felt her hand take hold of his. He turned slightly and met her gaze with only a mild warning that she should let go.

"Be careful," Rosalie said softly. Her hand slipped away from his and she closed her eyes wearily.

Guy walked away, chafing his hand against his breeches to rid his skin of the memory of hers. But, as he passed, he shut the casement to keep the cold out and covered Rosalie with one of the blankets that had been discarded during her fever.

Then he left her.

* * *

The outlaws were drenched and the shower was turning into a storm, but they had no home to return to. Gisborne had discovered their camp and they were without shelter. The only choice they had was to dodge Gisborne and his men until the weather drove them back to Locksley, then, perhaps, they could try to find a cave Gisborne did not know of to pass the night in.

Robin scarcely spoke aside from giving direction. The clouds that loomed over his face were darker than those that shut out the sun above them. No one spoke of what had happened at Locksley, not even Tuck. They were only certain Robin had not murdered Guy when they spotted the latter on his horse, shouting at his men like the fiend they knew him to be. Even now, safely stowed in a thicket, listening to the echo of hooves as the retreated to Locksley, they remained silent.

"Will Rosalie live?" Robin asked softly, looking fixedly at the mud on his boots.

Tuck heaved a sigh and wondered what the question might bode. Robin had called her by her Christian name, not her title, ignoring the fact that she was Gisborne's lady, Gisborne's wife. Perhaps it was best to let whatever sentiments stirring in Robin's heart take root. If he wanted Rosalie to be safe, he would have to let her husband alone and stay his course.

"If she is given time to rest and heal, yes," Tuck replied. "I would not her to be ill when winter sets in. She may never regain her strength if she is."

"What's wrong with her?" curious Allan inquired. He was tactless, yes, but he could not understand why it should make a difference what happened to her, at least as far as the gang was concerned.

Robin looked up and his murky, blue eyes bored into Tuck's face, willing the priest to give up what he knew. Even Much began to look in Tuck's direction with interest and John's arms fell from his chest where they had been crossed.

"She lost a child last night," he answered with a sigh. "She had a fever when I left, but it should be broken by now."

Robin said nothing. Rain fell down his face, dripping off the bridge of his nose, but he seemed impervious to it. Somehow, Tuck knew Robin had guessed something of the kind. He knew something had happened to stay Robin's hand and was willing to wager that it was Rosalie. Perhaps God intended more use for Rosalie than to get them out of scrapes.

"We wait here an hour," Robin stated, his voice ringing clearly above the crashing thunder, but his face held nothing of the fearless leader he had once been. "When we're sure Gisborne won't come back, we'll find some shelter for the night."

* * *

Rosalie lay a-bed all morning and for the greater part of the afternoon. The tedious progress of new sheets and new shifts continued. She almost wanted to tell them to burn everything that had been stained from the miscarriage. Last night, she had not been given a moment to consider what such a loss meant for her. She had failed her husband, but she failed him in as many ways as he failed her, it should make no difference. The nuns at the convent had told her God killed babies in their mother's wombs to punish the latter for some sin they had committed. Her confessor in London had assured her that many of the tales she had been told within the cloister had been spun just to scare little girls, but her confessor was also rumored to bugger altar boys, doing little to ease her mind.

Had she sinned? Did she lose the baby because she refused to help Hood or because she had betrayed her husband? If she confessed to either, Guy would kill her and the truth was that he needed her far more than she needed him. If it were not for her, Robin would have killed him a thousand times over by now. Guy could murder her and she would go to heaven, but she knew full-well whither his soul was bound. Did he deserve hell? All mankind did, in truth, but Jesu died to save the blackguards as well as the maidens. The Apostle Paul had slaughtered Christians and committed heinous crimes, but Christ changed his heart and saved his soul. Surely the redemption of Guy of Gisborne would not be so far fetched, nor the redemption of Robin Hood, for that matter.

In the late afternoon, one of her maids brought yet another bowl of soup in a valiant effort to convince her to eat. Rosalie had no appetite, but no will to order the girl out of the room and was forced to sit staring at the steaming broth and listening to pleas that her ladyship must eat something. She tried to swallow a few

sips, but her throat was so tight and her entire body ached, more from sorrow than exhaustion.

"Mary!" hissed another girl, bursting into the room. She had probably assumed that her mistress was still asleep and tears were streaming down her flushed face.

"Bess, are you trying to give the mistress a fright?" Mary demanded. "Master'll whip us if she gets worse."

At the mention of Guy, Mary's eyes bulged and her pallor cooled somewhat as she turned and gave a quick curtsey.

"I'm so sorry, milady," Bess stammered, "but it were so important…"

"What, by our Lady, is going on?" Rosalie demanded, ignoring the apologies.

"It's cook, milady," Bess replied, looking again at Mary. "Master's soldiers arrested her. They say she helped Hood escape."

Rosalie sank against the head board, a white hand going to her white brow.

"Gwyn is blind," she sighed.

"I know, milady," Bess cried. "I told them that, but they won't listen. Someone says Cook put summat in t'stew that drugged 'em all."

The priest. Rosalie knew he was clever and determined, but she did not think he would go so far as to frame an innocent. Certainly not an old, blind woman. The Moor had confessed to drugging Guy, it went to stand that he was the one who drugged everyone else.

"Where is Sir Guy?" Rosalie demanded, throwing off the blankets and sitting up.

"In Sherwood," Bess replied. "I heard tell that 'E's coming back. -He'll hang Cook!"

"He will do no such thing," she groaned as she pulled herself to her feet.


	20. Lavender

Chapter Nineteen  
Lavender

Guy tore open the door and stormed into the hall, almost knocking Thornton over as he came thundering in like a rabid bear unleashed. Smoke almost came from his nostrils and fire certainly burned in his eyes. In that moment, there was little to distinguish Guy from a beast: he shook and water and mud flew from his hair and clothes; he growled and hearts quaked.

A small party of guards was already awaiting him and in their midst an old woman sat upon a stool. They had meant to tie her, but the lady of the house promised to poison them as her Aunt Eleanor had poisoned Rosamund, King Henry's mistress, if they dared. Few among them had lain eyes on Rosalie, Guy had kept her well out of their company for the sake of keeping his men from distraction and protecting her from their rough manners, and most were ready to believe that she was as harsh and as cruel as her husband. She had counted on that.

"Is this her?" Guy demanded, though it was more of a bellow than a question. He drew near and loomed over her, his steely eyes narrowing dangerously as he did.

The guards shook in their boots: they knew when Gisborne was this angry, a sound beating was to be expected.

But Guy wavered a little as he stared at the aged goodwife before him. Her glassy eyes stared at his belly, but they were empty and hazed over. She was blind: no one had ever told him that fact. He only knew her was the old hag in the kitchen who made excellent boar stew and mutton. His stomach turned: he did not need a conscience now.

"Did you drug my men?" he bit out.

"My lord, I must speak with you," rang a clear voice.

Guy turned and glared up at his wife who stood perched at the top of the stair-case. The forlorn figure he had left in bed this morning had made a haphazard transformation to a noblewoman. Her hair was smoothed and plaited into a thick braid that draped over her shoulder and her cheeks had been pinched until pallor ad been restored, though even Guy could see that colour was beginning to fade.

"It can wait," he growled, his eyes sending a fiendish warning that might have caused Vasey to blanch.

Rosalie stood unwavering, though her white hands gripped the railing until her knuckles were white-hot.

"No, I fear it cannot," she replied with all the dignity of one descended from kings. "I pray you, come up."

"I said-"

"My lord," her tone was cool and even, "this is of great import."

Guy snarled, using every ounce within him to cast Rosalie the ugliest look he had ever gifted her with during their summer marriage. After all, as the rains attested, harvest was coming and autumn was drawing near. But he climbed the stairs, two by two, nonetheless. He was shaken, his mind was addled, and his head was still throbbing from the priest's drug, but Rosalie had at least given him the opportunity to change into something dry, even if he spent the next five minutes enduring whatever childish matter she needed his help resolving.

Guy slammed the door to their bedroom shut, hoping to jar her nerves a bit, but instantly regretted it. At present, her nerves had endured enough and he was not in the mood to write Prince John a request for another royal bride, nor to bury Rosalie. Now that he was closer, he saw that all her courtly airs were a ruse. She was not even well enough to be fully dressed: rather, she had donned a deep crimson dressing gown over her shift that laced loosely at the bodice, resembling a dress.

She gripped the nearest poster of his bed for support and he was half-inclined to order her back in it, but decided to see how long she was willing to keep this up.

"If you were not ill, Rosalie," his tone was a warning that she was exhausting her resources.

Rosalie looked down to hide the mirth that flashed in her eyes at his threat. She knew he would strike her eventually: her father had, the nuns had, and she had come to understand that most husbands beat their wives from time to time. He could not threaten her with something she knew she could not escape.

"Well, what is it?" he demanded, causing her to look up at him.

His damp hair was caked in mud, as were his clothes. She inwardly groaned when she saw the mud he had tracked across the floorboards, but held her tongue. She knew he was not the kind of man who took kindly to being chided by women and she could only deal with one issue tonight.

Guy's eyes were firebrands upon her face, but she had become accustomed to that, as she had learnt to hide her own eyes from his if she wanted him to remain in her presence long enough to hear her out.

"You cannot touch Gwyn," she stated simply.

His neck stiffened and he stepped forward to loom over her.

"Do not presume-"

"Gwyn is blind, and old, and every man and woman on this estate loves her like their mother," Rosalie protested.

Guy stepped back, discomforted by the heat emanating from their bodies and afraid that his wife would feel his hesitation. Vasey could always sense his weaknesses and always played them.

"I will not have her hanged," he promised, "only a whipping or a day in the stocks."

"You saw her downstairs," Rosalie retorted. "You know that could kill her. Guy, you cannot touch a single hair on her head, not if you want to keep yours."

Guy rounded and glared at her.

"Are you threatening me, _wife_?" he challenged.

"With what could I threaten you?" she answered. "I have no money, no power, and the only man earth I could possibly influence is imprisoned in Austria. I am only warning you of the danger you put yourself in."

"I have dealt with these people for nearly a decade," he snorted. "I think I can handle this."

"Except for one small detail, my lord."

"And what is that?" he snapped.

"Robin Hood," she replied, meeting his irate gaze with one of maddening serenity and only a small hint of irony. "He wants you dead. This is his estate, the serfs have never broken their fealty to him. What is to stop him from inciting them against you?"

"He never has before."

"Marian was alive then," she stated, flinching when his eyes fell on her at the sound of _her _name. "You were under the protection of Vasey, you are not any longer."

"I have men enough to protect myself," Guy hissed. "And you."

"Are they enough to protect you if Nottingham joins forces with Hood?" Rosalie asked, undefeated. "You are a threat to the sheriff's position and you know it. Did you know that Vasey came here yesterday and tried to turn me, your own wife, against you? You have no allies, Guy. John is in London and I know my cousin, he will leave you to hang before he comes to your help."

"When did you become so concerned with politics?" he smirked, but not in amusement.

"I am an Angevin," she replied. "We learn at an early age how to survive a family dinner without being exiled to Germany."

"And what is your suggestion, chamberlain?" he chortled.

To his annoyance, her feathers were not ruffled by his mockery. Instead, she took him at face-value and answered plainly.

"The people," Rosalie said. "The people hate Vasey because he takes from them and torments them. They love Hood because he gives them a basket of food at the end of the week. But Hood is an outlaw and the sheriff hurts them to get Hood. You are not only within the law, you represent the law: you are the King and the Regent's cousin. If you can win their love, they can give it without reprisal and neither Hood nor Vasey can influence them against you."

"Clearly no one has told you that people hate me as well," he sighed with the condescension of an adult speaking to a foolish child.

"That is where Gwyn comes-" Rosalie's sentence was cut off by a sharp cramp in her stomach that made her wince.

"Mother of God, sit down Rosalie," Guy groaned, trying to mask his worry.

She complied and eased herself on the bed, breathing through the pain until it passed.

"If you spare Gwyn," she sighed, "you take a small step in earning the fealty of _your_ people. If you show the people that you can provide for them, protect them from tyrants like Vasey, in the name of God and the law, then they will no longer _need_ Hood."

"They will not believe me," Guy growled through clenched teeth.

"No, not at first," Rosalie assented, "but with time they will. You need only prove to them that the… cruel man they knew you to be was only acting under orders of a tyrannical sheriff. Vasey has already failed to give the Crown its tribute and John is only waiting for an excuse to remove him from office." She turned her face up to him imploringly. "Please, my lord, you must see how this can only serve to your advantage."

Guy went to the hearth and sat down in the chair by the fire, considering her words. She was more clever than he took her to be. The thought of finally being the Lord of Locksley held no true allure. Locksley was a haunted manor in the middle of a forest and he hoped to be granted a better estate when Hood's head was presented to John on a platter. But the thought of winning the loyalty of Hood's own people, of robbing Robin of his self-righteous cause, made him heady. What was more, Rosalie had found away to bring Vasey into the fold. For a moment, Guy thought that if the sheriff were to meet his just end, if he could be sent to London to account for his own failures, Marian might just fall silent. In any case, Guy could never truly breathe whilst Vasey's shadow remained at his back.

Guy met his wife's rapt face with a smirk.

"I never knew you were so ambitious, Lady Gisborne," he remarked.

Rosalie sighed in relief, knowing that he had seen her reasoning.

"I am not," she replied. "I want to save the life of an old woman and see the people placed under my charge fed through the winter. -It is convenient for me that the merciful path is also the most beneficial to your standing in the shire."

Guy looked away, schooling his features to hide the feelings stirring within his breast. In that moment, Rosalie reminded him too much of Marian. But Marian would not have been so outright about her motives, nor would she have chosen to reason in terms of power and politics. It was always the same with her: smile and coo, or frown and spurn. Rosalie was not above begging; it did not break her will or her pride. She could not hide her emotions from anyone, but Guy did not want to know them and it irked him to no end to be confronted with them.

"My lord," Rosalie's voice broke through the silence. "You are soaked to the skin, please get out of those wet things before you take ill and we are both bed-ridden."

For a moment, Guy thought that he would rather die than endure to spend more than one hour in Rosalie's bed. To feel her body so close to his was anguish, and not the pleasurable sort. Listening to her breathe, seeing her innocent face as she slept, served only to remind him of how black his sins were. Her peaceful sleep taunted him with that which he could never attain. If he slept, the only thing that awaited him was a nightmare.

"Guy," once again he had to be called back to reality. "You'll catch your death."

Guy stood and worked at the fastenings of his jerkin while Rosalie busied herself in a chest at the foot of the bed.

"You will need to wash your hair," she called over her shoulder. "There is some olive oil on the table by the basin. It will break up the mud."

"Olive oil?" Guy was a little surprised at such an extravagance. He had only tasted it in Italy, but had never thought to bring it back to England, much less wash his hair with it.

"Do you not know?" she mocked herself. "My aunt prefers to spend her winters in Provence. She was actually thoughtful enough to send me a gift at Christ Mass."

"No wonder you Angevins need England," Guy scoffed as he worked the mire from his hair. "How else could you pay for your excursions throughout the rest of the world?"

"Do not be so quick in your judgment, my lord," Rosalie replied. "I, for one, have never been further east than Aquitaine and I was only eleven."

Guy finished rinsing his hair and stood to dry it. He could feel Rosalie standing with her maidenly head bowed. One would not have guessed that he had come to her chamber and stripped to his braies twenty times since their marriage. Most likely, she thought it a sin to look upon her husband's bare skin. He wondered if she beseeched God to grant her forgiveness when she whispered her prayers before coupling, he wondered if she had realized that God had taken her child because of his sins, not hers, and he wondered when she would realize that she was not the one in need of absolution.

Rosalie cleared her throat and approached timidly, proffering a folded piece of white cloth.

"I made this for you," she said quietly. "I meant to give it to you yesterday, but…"

Guy received it and studied her gift. It was a linen shirt, sublimely embroidered with black ivy at the collar and where the laces were woven. He had never noticed her sewing, but then he seldom noticed anything she did. The scent of rosewater and a hint of lavender wafted from the material: smells of Rosalie, and reminders of Marian that would cling to him.

"I thank you," he managed to say tersely, "but this is too fine for a soldier."

"You are not a soldier any longer," she replied, "you are the Lord of Locksley and a cousin of the king."

Guy reluctantly put it on. Her face was growing ever-paler and he felt too guilty to argue with her. He no longer felt guilt for anything except Marian. It felt strange on his skin, but it fit him well and, after a minute, the caress of linen on his skin worked to soothe his still-frayed nerves.

He raised his eye-brow when Rosalie handed him a velvet doublet of deep brown.

"I warn you, woman, my head is pounding and I will not be accountable for my actions," he cautioned.

"This is more comfortable than your jerkin," she rejoined, her voice growing a little thin from fatigue as she weakly thrust it into his hands and brushed by him.

Guy watched her limp toward the toilette table, pick up small jar, and return in the same fashion.

"I know this will irk you, but I am too tired to reach up," Rosalie sighed. "Please kneel or something so that I can reach your temples."

He growled but stooped his shoulders so that his face was level with hers. He instantly smelt the sharp scent of lavender and glowered all the more as his wife proceeded to massage oil into his temples, the glands on his neck, then the pressure points at his wrists.

"That stench is repugnant," he grumbled, choosing the first insult that came to mind.

Rosalie gave another of her wan smiles, as though she believed only her mind could see it.

"That stench will ease your headache," she replied, "and stave off bad air. I never said you would like it. I thought I was the child-bride."

"How old are you?" Guy was surprised he asked. He scarcely cared.

"This is my nineteenth summer," Rosalie answered. "How old are you?"

"I am four and thirty," he replied. "Too old for you?"

Another of those half-smiles.

"My feelings have never been of consequence in this arrangement," she said plainly, with no emotion.

"I did not choose you, Rosalie," Guy stated, almost defensively.

"No, John chose me for you," Rosalie acquiesced with a heavy sigh.

_Stay and make this__ place bearable. _That is what he asked of Marian, scarcely a year ago now. He had nothing to ask of Rosalie and nothing to offer in return if he did. How could he ever have begged a woman for her love? What good was a woman's love when all was said and done? Rosalie did not love him and he did not love her, but his house was kept and he had risen to a status beyond even his ambitions. Vasey was right in one aspect: people are only worth what one can use them for.

Guy smirked.

"Did you know that lavender represents distrust?" he asked his wife with half a sneer.

Rosalie lifted her face and met his harsh eyes with her gentle ones. The softness within her eyes, the quiet sadness and the gleam of hope deep within her dark orbs defeated him instantly.

"Where I come from," she replied softly, "lavender means purity, and devotion, and silence."

And somewhere deep within the ruins of what was once his heart, Guy knew he would never recover from this blow.


	21. Guilt's Embrace

Chapter Twenty  
Guilt's Embrace

The servants and the soldiers gathered in the hall looked up in expectancy when they heard Gisborne's heavy step at the stairs, but their expectancy quickly turned to surprise at the image before them. The blackguard had shed his leathery shell and donned the habit of a nobleman, rather than a soldier. If not for the perpetual scowl etched across his strong features, he would even have looked handsome. Even Gwyn sat up at the smell of lavender, plush velvet, and clean linen: scents that belonged to the mistress, but now intermingled with the smell of leather and lye, the smells of the master.

Gisborne came down the stairs like a man who should be on horseback. He was one of the tallest men in the shire and his careless descent, less pronounced in any other man, always seemed a little heavier given his frame. He did not wear a nobleman's habit as well as a jerkin and broadsword. In fact, he seemed a more than a little naked without it. He was like a man who had spent many days carrying a heavy burden and who now had to learn how to stand and walk without the weight upon his shoulders.

He stood in front of Gwyn and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his eyes down. His jaw was terse as though the words that waited on his tongue were heavy. The servants, who had expected to be confronted with the full store of his malice, were amazed at his silence and composure. He seemed like a different man.

At last, he looked up and scanned the faces of the men gathered in the hall until the fell upon their target. He was difficult to miss: unlike the other guards who stood in livery, he was wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket and looked more than a little weak-at-the-knees when he was met with the master's steely eyes.

"You are the witness, then," Guy stated. "What is your name?"

The guard turned pale. "Orrick Wyatt, sir," he bit out. He knew, he just knew, the master would place all the blame on his shoulders.

"Where are your clothes, Wyatt?" Guy demanded.

Orrick began to stammer. "Ye see, sir, it were like this… A' was walkin' to the -well to the refuse pit, sir- and A' felt this tappin' on me shoulder, turned 'round… And the next thing A' knew, it were rainin' and A' was…"

Guy rolled his eyes. _Robin Hood. _It was no great surprise that the outlaw should manage to sniff out the wink link in the company's chain. Guy could only remember this Wyatt as being the man underfoot in Rosalie's sick room the previous night. He could not help but wonder: if Rosalie had died last night, which would trouble him more? Losing her, or losing Hood? He breathed deeply and was instantly assaulted with the scent of lavender. -Losing Hood.

He cocked his head, staring calmly at Orrick.

"It's true, then," he said, "that when you took the prisoner to the kitchen to prepare medicine for Lady Gisborne, Cook dropped something by the hearth. The prisoner went to help her and handed ingredients to her. You, naturally, thought nothing of it because he, hitherto, had behaved like a perfect priest and a man of God."

Orrick's eyes went wide as saucers and he opened his mouth to protest, but Guy's look went hard as stone and fierce as hot iron.

"It's true, Wyatt?" Guy did not ask.

The poor mercenary remembered well his master's promises from the night before. A part of him was terrified of whatever trap Gisborne was setting up for him, but more afraid of what would befall him instead should he not walk into it when ordered.

"Aye, sir," his voice seemed clear enough, with only the slightest tremor, despite the frightened look in his insipid eyes. "That's true."

Guy took a heavy sigh from Prince John's repertoire and made it a little more masculine, better suited to his own idiom, and turned to Gwyn.

"I should think the conclusion is clear enough," he stated to the company. "This woman has been my cook since I came to Locksley and is known for her virtue. Clearly that wolf in priest's clothing found away to drug the stew whilst she was unaware." Guy gritted his teeth at his next statement, but he knew he would never win this round if he swallowed it. "I am only sorry that I allowed him in my house, but my need was great. I am sorry for the trouble this has caused you, Gwyn. I hope you will forgive us: when tensions rise, confusion ensues."

The old woman tried to stand, but the chair had no arms and she had only her own knees to steady her feeble bones. On instinct, Guy reached to help her and silently cursed Rosalie when he realized what he had done. When Gwyn's blank eyes looked up at him, and her aged faced crinkled with smile, a tiny part of him forgave Rosalie as well.

"Lady Gisborne is an angel." Gwyn spoke softly, only for Guy's ears, but it came as a promise, not a statement. "She is going to save you."

Save _him_? Why did she not say, "Lady Gisborne has saved _me_?" After all, this was Rosalie's doing, Rosalie's battle. -But Guy felt it: somewhere inside him, deep within the emptiness, there was a warmth. It was small and distant; a fledgling ember he expected to die before sunrise, but it was there all the same.

* * *

Guy did not even bother to return to the bedchamber that night. When the household retired, he took off his doublet and draped it over the back of the chair while he paced the room in the fading light from the hearth fire. His body was exhausted and worn from the drugs the priest had given him and the subsequent day on horseback, in the rain. His joints were happy to inform him that he was no longer as young as he once was, but the ache within his chest was even happier to remind him of what happened in Acre.

The cook's statement found its way through Marian's voice, adding to pangs that came with the shattered hope her words had once given him. Blue eyes swam in his vision: accusing him, disappointed in him, as though she had believed he would drop his sword and become the decent man she thought he was. As usual, Marian was wrong.

"_It's over, Guy…." _

"My lord."

Guy turned quickly, his reflexes prepared to strike, though his sword had been left upstairs. Years of looking over one's shoulder creates a habit that can never quite be shaken.

He was surprised to find Rosalie standing there, a shawl drawn about her shoulders to fend off the chill and protect her modesty. Linen shifts were more revealing than one expected at first glance.

"What do you want?" he growled, drawing near so that his height and size might intimidate her into surrender.

Rosalie was afraid of this Guy of Gisborne: the Guy of Gisborne who had spent the night drinking and fuming about a past he could not change. He belonged to Marian in these hours and she scarcely knew how to reach him when he was sober and more concerned with the present than the past.

"Will you not come to bed?" Her voice sounded clear, to her own surprise.

Guy snarled.

"I told you that you might enjoy it," he sneered.

Rosalie's face went white and her mouth twitched, though she tried to school her features. Her effort was in vain: even in his addled state, Guy saw the motion and read it clearly. She did not enjoy it, but he never expected her to. He hated it just as much as she.

"My lord, I cannot-"

"I am not a beast," he snapped, "I know well enough to let you alone until you are recovered. What must you think of me, I wonder?"

Rosalie's ire was roused at that statement. It was a challenge to her character and the Angevin in her would not let him cheapen her.

"I did not expect a man to know," she replied. "Women keep our… bodies, our needs a secret from you. We know well enough that you find them repugnant."

"Then what are you doing down here?" Guy demanded.

"I came for you," Rosalie answered, unshed tears in her eyes. "Come to bed, Guy, come sleep."

The look in his eyes betrayed his own brokenness, his own sorrow, that he had fought so long to hide from her, from the world.

"You do not know what waits for me in sleep." He had never spoken of it, and he never would.

"I know what keeps you company here," she said. "I know who waits at your shoulder while you pace this room. She follows you through the night and the day. I see her ghost within your eyes. How can sleep be worse than the waking hell in which you live?"

Guy was silent. A thousand reasons waited on the tip of his tongue, growing heavy there and falling silent again. He could not utter them; it was bad enough that they lived in his mind, in his heart. He could not tell Rosalie that when he dreamt, Marian was alive and he had a chance at redemption, but when he awoke she was gone and he was damned.

"You need rest, Guy," Rosalie said softly. "You will go mad otherwise and if you do, they will destroy you."

Guy stared long and hard at Rosalie: the living proof that whatever the state of his soul, Hood and Vasey could not touch him, not while he had her, not while he had his wits. The primal need to survive took hold of him and pushed him forward, and the need for comfort wrapped itself around him.

* * *

Rosalie was too weak to climb the stairs, but he could not endure to have her in his arms; so, he gave her one strong arm and patiently propelled her up each step, lending his strength and weight as they went. She tried to hide her own weakness, to ignore the pain within her empty womb or the dizziness in her head, but even a man as selfish as he could see that she needed help though she dared not ask.

When they reached the chamber, she instantly retreated to the comfort of the bed and looked away while he stripped took off his shirt and leggings. He had slept in his braies for as long as he could remember, regardless of who shared his bed.

Finally, he took his place beneath the sheets and blankets, keeping his back to her and trying to make this act as perfunctory as their coupling, but he could not deny this was different. He had never spent the night with a woman: no man in his right mind would waste money to sleep beside a whore and he always found an excuse to send Annie away when he was done with her. Tonight, he had not even touched Rosalie; he did not think he could bear to touch her again.

Guy heard the rustle of bedclothes and felt her turn, felt her draw closer to him. He knew she was cold from the way she huddled under the blankets and had kept the shawl so close downstairs, and thought perhaps she was seeking his body heat for comfort. He could grant that: she had almost died because of him. Then he felt her arms gently slip around his back as she pressed against him.

Rosalie was holding him, sweetly, almost like a child, and her touch made his heart quake. He reached for her hands, to pry them away, to break away from her and leave the room, but a quiet tremor passed through his body -the tremor that often preceded tears, but tears never came.

"Sleep, Guy," she whispered gently.

Rosalie held him fast and he knew she would not let go.


	22. Acquainted with the Night

Chapter Twenty-One

"Acquainted with the Night"

It rained for a solid week. Villagers feared mold would destroy their crops less than a fortnight before the harvest, Robin worried that one of his men would fall ill, Guy grew more cross with every search party driven back by the weather, and Tuck continued to thank Almighty God for His infinite wisdom and His holy plan for all of them.

Thanks to her youth, Rosalie's strength returned quickly, though not as speedily as it would had she been able of taking in fresh air and sunlight. She had done well in preparing the house for cold, damp days of being cramped in closer quarters. The cedar dust lent a much more pleasing smell than moldy hay and served its purpose, while lavender cleansed the air of impurities. Guy could not walk in the door without smelling it, but he found, despite his mounting frustration, his headaches were lessened. Thankfully for the staff who had relied on his headaches to keep him from unleashing his ire upon them, he was too wet and tired to rail more than a little when he returned home. They left the mistress to bear the brunt of his anger.

Guy no longer tried to intimidate Rosalie nor did he look for her to betray him. He ceased taunting her with her own misfortune at being a woman and his wife, and he no longer sought out her breaking point. It sat ill with him how his body had quickly learned to crave the comfort of her bed and her arms at the end of each day. He had not needed anything before Marian and he had not expected to need anything after her. Dependency on a woman, if only just her embrace in the night when his ghosts plagued him, rankled him in the light of day.

Rosalie seemed to sense this for she stayed well out of his way during the day, unless the servants were to busy to attend to him upon his return to the manor. It became a habit: some days she would be there upon his return, others she would only come downstairs once to make that his supper was properly seen to. She took her own supper in their chamber. Her fair was generally simpler as her appetite had not improved since coming to the shire and she knew her husband was… afraid of her. He was afraid that, being privy to his weakness, she would expose it.

Rosalie would be abed when he came upstairs and turned her back to him while he undressed. After a while, he told her not to rouse herself and moved to a place in the room where she could not see him. He had learnt to respect that she was a little afraid of him as well, it was one of few things he could give her.

Twice, Guy came to bed to find her already asleep. On the first night, he laid down beside her and thought to pass the night without her touch, but his presence must have stirred her, for in only a few minutes, he felt her arms entwine around him and heard her voice at his ear, telling him to sleep. On the second night, she continued to sleep soundly, leaving him waiting. He tried to sleep on his own, he forced himself to be grateful for the reprieve from her arms, but in the end, he turned to face her. She looked troubled and tired, as though she wanted to escape her dreams but did not know how. Guy reached out and gently rocked her shoulder until her dark eyes fluttered open, first in alarm, then relief to know where she was once more.

"I was so afraid," she whispered, not really speaking to Guy, but rather seeking the comfort of another human being, who, thus far, showed no intention of killing her or truly causing her harm. It never occurred to her that he was also the one person in the world who should put her comfort before his own, as she did his.

Guy said nothing, but fitted his head into the hollow of her neck as her arms entwined him. Marian was railing tonight, so loudly he wanted to scream. He felt Rosalie's fingers weave through his hair and gently massage his scalp, then heard her voice half-sing, half-hum a sweet lullaby. Guy knew that he would sleep without dreams tonight, as he did every night he slept in her arms.

What Guy did not know was that while he slept peacefully and soundly through the night, his wife kept a steady vigil. Her young heart sent silent and sometimes whispered prayers to heaven, warding him against the demons that plagued him. Only when Guy began to stir in the wee hours before down, did she finally drift off to sleep herself.


	23. Safety in Sherwood

Chapter Twenty-Two

Safety in Sherwood

No one in Nottingham was more grateful for the sunlight than the Outlaws of Sherwood, particularly Much. During the worst of it, they had ventured to pass the night the odd barn, but always took care to enter well after dark and leave well before daybreak. They did not dare to put the peasants they had sworn to defend in peril of their lives. They had long ago become accustomed to being wanted men: they were even proud of it, but the life on the run grew to be more taxing when they were being hunted from two fronts, Vasey and Guy separately, and had no place to find a little repose.

Robin kept faith that they would soon find a new camp and protect it with the same traps as before. At least, he kept as much faith as he could even when he took into consideration that he had lost Will Scarlett's carpentry to the Holy Land and a beautiful Saracen woman. He missed the gentleness and the fierceness both Will and Djaq had brought to the camp. Their passion and zeal were as unwavering as their loyalty and friendship were constant.

Harvest came with the sunshine and, during the day, the Outlaws disguised themselves as labourors to aide the smaller villages like Nettlestone and Clun. The rain had cooled the earth, making the work more bearable, but the farmers all feared the crop would mold and with the sheriff at their doorstep, demanding his taxes be paid, they were eager to have it safely brought in.

"Robin!" hissed Allan, running through the field to catch up with the leader. Robin knelt amidst the grain taking a drink of cold water, which he choked on and spewed when Allan pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.

"Mother of God, Allan!" Robin swore, but was hushed by the sound of horses drawing near. His cold eyes fixed upon A' Dale's.

"It's Gisborne," Allan confirmed.

Before either man could make a break for the woods, Gisborne was within sight of the field, leaving them no choice but to keep their heads down and hope for the best. Robin's hand dropped his cycle and clenched his sword, but Allan's hand at his arm was firm and he strove to cool his temper. They were outnumbered and he would not risk Allan going to the block because of him.

Gisborne lead his mount in a slow canter to the field's edge. The village elders met him there, but rather than bellow demands or answer the curious looks etched on their faces, he seemed to acknowledge them with a brusque look before he swung out of his saddle. As he did, a horde of men appeared over the crest of the hill he had just come down and both Allan and Robin moved to grasp their weapons.

Guy climbed into the seat of a horseless cart where he could best be seen by all gathered and called for attention.

"People of Clun," he called out, his voice still sending fear into the hearts of the peasants who had not forgotten the crimes of two years ago. -Before Lady Marian had tempered the beast within Guy. "I understand that there are not enough men and boys strong enough to bring in the harvest speedily. As cousin to the king, I have brought my men to assist you in the field. Do not trouble yourselves, I have no need for repayment. No tax will be exacted for this service and neither I nor my men will take a portion of the harvest. This is done only for the good of the shire and the realm."

For a moment Guy stood staring into the awestruck faces that were fixed upon him. It seemed as though he felt he should say something more, but could think of nothing. It was evident he wanted nothing more than to leave, which he did presently. No sooner had he spoken, than he was back on his horse and headed back toward Knighton.

"We 'ave to get out o' here, Rob," Allan whispered.

"Right," Hood agreed. "We'll split up. Tell Much to get to Locksley. I want to know what Gisborne is playing at."

"But Robin-"

"Gisborne is headed to Knighton," Robin brooked no argument. "Much is the least likely to look suspect and most likely to fall under Rosalie's protection should he be caught."

"Robin, she didn't give you the prince's letter," Allan reminded him. "We don't know whose side she's on."

"She didn't give me Prince John's letter because the King isn't here to stand as judge!" Robin rounded on his companion. "She didn't give me the letter so that I would not lose sight of my mission." His voice caught as the next statement sat ill on his conscience. "So that I would not sacrifice you and the others for Gisborne's head. She is our ally."

"Robin!" Allan gripped his leader by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze with the sheer intensity of it. "Don't do this now. Wait a while… Give Gisborne time to cool his heels, wait for his men to get tired and sloppy. Don't do this to Much and don't to it to Rosalie. I got a good look at her, I spoke with her: she's a sweet girl, she don't deserve this. You know Much'll get caught in the lion's mouth! And you know she'll not let him hang, and you know that Guy will kill her if he thinks she's betrayed him. She's not Marian, Rob. Let 'er be."

Robin pried Allan's hands away and began a march toward the woods, only to turn back and utter with vehemence:

"I will never abandon her to Gisborne."

Without another word he headed for safety and Allan forced himself to swallow his own fears as he followed suit. He knew a side of Guy that Robin could never understand: the side that had never struck Marian, the side that loved her the only way he knew how. He watched Rosalie put herself directly in the line of Gisborne's anger and survive unscathed. -He knew Guy had not punished her that night because he was heard bellowing orders too soon after leaving them in the barn to allow time to do more than walk to the manor house and back.- In any case, he could only hope she knew when to hold her tongue and when to stay in her room because the harsh truth was that the outlaws could not afford to come to her rescue.

* * *

Every man in Locksley was on his toes now that the lady was well enough to be out of doors. The elders had come to Thornton when it was clear there were not enough hands to bring in the harvest in time to make the sheriff's appointed tax day. The steward had made feeble attempts to turn them away, not reckoning that his mistress was within earshot. That night, the master spent an hour alone in his chamber with Lady Gisborne. His voice echoed through the heavy door and thick walls from time to time, but not even Gwyn's sharp ears could determine exactly what was said. The next morning, Sir Guy ordered the least apt of his men, led by Orrick Wyatt, to assist the people of Locksley with the harvest.

Within three days, the harvest was almost brought in and Gisborne was greeted exactly twice by goodwives expressing their gratitude. Rosalie supped with Guy on the third night and on the fourth morning, it was announced that Locksley would lend its aid to the surrounding villages. Thornton knew for a fact that the women in question had needed Lady Gisborne's charity most of all in the village; however, Guy, though aware that a good portion of his holdings were being distributed among the people of Locksley, was oblivious to this fact.

In truth, Rosalie had been given free rein of Locksley to do as she saw fit. The day after Guy absolved Gwyn, Rosalie ordered that a portion of all revenues and resources be set aside for the people of Locksley, Thornton all but laughed in her face, mostly in fear of reprisal from the master for obedience to the mistress. The pair argued until Gwyn was led to the hall by Mary. She managed to silence Thornton and send Rosalie to lie down before she caught her death, but the only resolution came that evening when Guy returned from searching for Hood.

Guy was in no humour to pay a visit to Rosalie's sickroom and less amused to see her paler than when he had left her, or to hear tell of a servant defying the authority of his lady. Thornton was promptly summoned to the bedchamber, quaking in his boots at the cold anger in Guy's voice, and informed that Rosalie's word was law and could only be countermanded by Guy himself.

From that day on, no one dared question Rosalie's instruction. She ran the household well and, so far, Guy had never countermanded her beyond insisting that she do little physical work until she had fully recovered. Recovery came well enough, but lack of sleep and appetite wore heavily upon her body. Her gowns needed to be taken in and, had Guy cared to notice, he would have felt the change in her arms, her wrists, and her waist.

In the confusion of harvest, no one noticed the cart that made its way to the door of Locksley Manor, or the saw the maid disappear within the walls, to be soon replaced by Lady Locksley. They did not see the wan face grow whiter, nor the passing of a bundle, and no one cared to notice the black liveried messenger that departed on horseback soon after.

* * *

Tuck, Much, and Little John had not been as fortunate in Knighton as Robin and Allan had been in Clun. Tuck was not a difficult man to spot, try though he might to bend his tall frame and hide his dark skin. Hood was built like any other man of his years and was unremarkable in stature being neither over-tall nor short, but Tuck was seared upon Guy's memory. He had only ever seen the man stooped over a sickbed or a bowl of water. In no time, Guy and his men were in hot pursuit of the outlaws: the latter on foot through the forest and the former on horseback, attempting to cut them off at a path.

Little John and Much knew the woods too well for the southern born mercenaries. Even Guy, a stranger to the shire, though not to the North, failed to fully understand Sherwood. The forest had a way of bewitching a man, causing him to lose himself within her trees. Guy had ventured into that very wood a thousand times, combed through it again and again, and it still bewildered him. John once told Tuck that a man had to be still and listen to Sherwood, to realize that he could never defeat her and let her know that he would never try. Only then would she keep him safe.

Guy hated the forest. The darkness, the closeness of the trees that threatened to swallow him up. He hated living in watchfulness, lest an outlaw or beast ambush him from behind. Sherwood plagued him as surely as Nottingham and London; it taunted him with the inescapable fact that, no matter where he went in this world or the next, he would never find peace.

The men soon lost the trail of the outlaws: he had, after all, chosen the least competent to assist in the harvest and that fool Orrick Wyatt had led the charge into the wood.

"My lord," panted a red-faced Orrick, after being ordered by his master to report. "They've disappeared. It's like witchcraft or summat."

"Sirrah!" Guy shouted, his own skin turning every shade of crimson "Get back out there and scour the forest floor for them! I don't want a hollow long left uncheck or a shrub that has not been stabbed through!"

With a not-so-gentle kick to the shoulder from his commander, Orrick ran off with his tail between his legs to do as he was bade. Not a man among them dared to be within a hundred paces of Gisborne if he could prevent it, not when he was in this humour. The more clever among them managed to guess that their failure would not have rankled him quite so much if the Moor had not been among them. The other outlaws were worthless to Guy, beyond providing bait for Hood which had proven to be ineffective too many times in the past two years. But the Moor… The Moor had made him into a fool in his own house.

"Not a man of you will get his supper unless those outlaws are caught," Guy bellowed, making sure his voice carried through the trees to the mercenaries. "Now get to it!"

In truth, though it made his blood boil, Guy knew full well that this match was done with and he had lost. The outlaws were not going to be found, not on their own turf. He counted on Rosalie to intervene for the poor sods looking inside hollow logs and stabbing shrubberies with their broadswords, or else he would lose a half-dozen men to starvation before Hood was finally swinging from the end of a rope.

Guy's ears pricked at the sound of hoof beats: his men had come on foot and he had not encountered another person on horse back that day. It seemed odd that anyone would venture away from their estates during harvest when every hand was needed and, for a moment, he thought of the sheriff and prayed against it. He could not stomach a friendly chat with Vasey in this humour.

The horse drew nearer, neighing in protest as the rider urged it into the forest and Guy turned toward the direction of the hoof beats. It took little time for the rider to come within view and upon recognizing the livery of his own men, Guy rode up the crest of the hill to meet him half-way.

From the safety of the shrubbery which he had ascertained was not harboring outlaws, Orrick watched Gisborne's face cool as he received the scroll from the messenger and opened it. When Gisborne's face flushed, it meant beatings would be given with regard to neither person nor his desert; when his face turned white there could be no telling what would happen.

Upon reading the contents of the message, Guy's face turned white.


	24. The Bastard's Bargain

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Bastard's Bargain

Guy stormed into Locksley Manor, sending the door to the hall crashing against the wall and slamming it back in place in his wake. Thornton came scrambling into the hall uttering some formal salutation and rubbish about pleasant surprises and Guy's unexpected return, but the black knight heard none of it.

"Where is Rosalie?" he demanded, rejecting all formality. It had been his wont to refer to her according to her station as either his lady wife or the king's cousin when addressing the servants, but in that moment all precepts, all facades were forgotten.

Thornton saw the flint within Guy's eyes and opened his mouth to stammer an explanation, but there was none that could save his hide.

"I am here, my lord," answered her clear voice, and Guy looked beyond the steward to see his wife standing at the top of the stairs.

"Where is he?" Guy barked as Thornton made himself scarce.

"He has just gone to sleep," she replied, walking calmly down the stairs. "I will thank you not to raise your voice; he is exhausted."

Rosalie did not look at Guy, not really, but he studied her carefully. There was something in her face, her eyes, her voice that was completely altered and he could not tell why. She seemed…

At last, her dark eyes met his.

"What is he doing here?" Guy asked, turning away to avoid the knowing in her eyes.

"They told me that his mother took a fever and died when the rains came," Rosalie answered. She had lost her baby the night the rains came, but neither of them would speak of it. "After much persuasion, she told them who the child's father was."

Guy looked at her as though he was trying to laugh, but his scoff was feeble.

"You cannot believe he is mine," he said. "Even I was never sure."

Rosalie's eyes fixed upon his.

"Guy, Seth is your image."

Guy wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

"He goes to Kirklee's first thing tomorrow morning," he declared coldly.

"That is unnecessary," Rosalie said gently.

Guy rounded on her.

"I will not have him here!"

"I will not let him leave," she replied, her mouth pressed into a thin line and her eyes growing hard.

Guy turned on his heel and headed for the door in a play to bring the conversation to a close and have the final word by ignoring hers, but Rosalie followed after him.

"Guy, listen to me," she pleaded, arresting him before he reached his destination. "He is your son, you cannot cast him out!"

"And you would keep him here?" he challenged. "You would have kitchen wench's bastard live among us? Have him brought up with our children?"

"Yes!" she replied with a desperation Guy could not understand.

"I forbid it," he growled, trying to move her aside so that he could escape the house; escape his wife… and child.

Rosalie would not be put off and Guy had to keep a firm rein on his temper. He did not trust himself not to harm her and she tested his last vestige of forbearance.

"Listen to me!" Rosalie cried, standing her ground. "If you send him away now, if you cast him out into the world, that same world will make him as cold and as hard as it made you. Too many people know who he belongs to: he will find you. He will haunt you, Guy! Whatever you deny him now, he will come back and take by force."

"Not if he is dead!" Guy stated with a vehemence that made her blood run cold.

He heard rather than felt the slap Rosalie dealt to his face, almost as clearly as he heard the cry that echoed from her throat. His vision cleared quickly and he stared into her pale face and wet eyes. It did not occur to him to be angry, he was too surprised at such an action from her, but for an instant he thought she feared his retaliation until he looked deeper and saw it was not her own safety she feared.

Guy's blood was cooled by the tears in Rosalie's eyes and the cold reality they brought crashing through his being. The last person Guy had killed was Marian. He had not even engaged in combat with an enemy since Acre and the truth was, despite his own fear of what Seth's existence meant to his own, he could not kill in cold blood… Not a child.

Rosalie's lips parted a moment, then promptly closed. She had thought to ask Guy's forgiveness, then realized that nothing she had done could take the blame from his shoulders. An unfamiliar sound echoed upstairs, growing in volume. She recognized it as Seth's cry and moved to answer it, but Guy caught her arm and made her stay.

"What do you want, Rosalie?" he asked, his voice low and thick.

She turned to face him. The storm in her eyes had subsided, but the longing within them remained.

"You asked me once what more I wanted out of our bargain," she reminded him, her voice soft and worn from crying. "I did not know then, but I do now. -I want Seth. I have never asked anything of you, not for myself, and I never will again. Please, Guy, grant me this one thing. Give me my son."

Guy stared at her in utter bewilderment. How could a noblewoman want to raise a servant's bastard? Nearly two years ago, he had left Seth to die in Sherwood because he knew that child would be a stain on his reputation. Worse than that, he knew Marian would never take him, would never accept him as a gentleman if she knew he had sired a child out of holy wedlock.

The sound of Seth's crying grew louder, and footsteps were heard in the upstairs corridor.

"Mistress!" cried Mary, coming down the stairs with a weeping toddler on her hip. "He won't stop cryin'. A' tried all A' could but…"

She stopped short upon seeing Guy standing in the hall, but he paid her no heed, only stared at the red-faced babe in her arms. Seth had changed so much in the past two years. Rosalie was right: he was his father's image and Guy was not sure he could bear to look upon his own likeness on one so innocent and yet so guilty of his parents' sins.

"My poor boy," Rosalie cooed as Seth stretched his chubby arms toward her. Guy watched dumbfounded as she took his child in her arms and comforted him. "I'm here, my little love… Don't cry…"

Seth laid his head upon Rosalie's shoulder as her white hand rubbed soothing circles on the boy's back and stared at the man who had sired him and abandoned him as though he could recognize him. A stab of guilt went straight to Guy's core, but he was soon spared when Seth turned his head to bury his face in Rosalie's neck.

Rosalie seemed to have forgotten that Guy was there, or else she had ceased caring, but for the second time in their marriage he stared into her eyes without fear. They seemed a thousand miles away from him and soft as a doe's. He knew now why she wanted Seth, why she needed him so strongly. Seth loved Rosalie: his child's heart gave it freely and completely and her woman's heart reciprocated ten thousand fold.

For the first time, Rosalie seemed happy. Memories of all-forgiving arms wrapped around him at night, of cheeks turned in forbearance, and of the nights she asked his forgiveness for failing him as a wife and woman, told him she deserved more than a little happiness in this hard world. He could never give her that, but Seth could.

Mary had long since left the three of them alone in the hall. Guy could speak freely without fear of appearing weak before any one save Rosalie, who could not hurt him if she tried.

He drew near, feeling evermore the intruder upon the growing love between woman and child. He struggled to find the words that would not betray his own guilt or give way for her to slip into his soul and find his secrets, but, just once, he did not want to make her bleed.

"I will make him FitzGuy," he said softly. -FitzGuy meant that Seth was acknowledged as Guy's illegitimate son and entitled to some portion of his estate when he passed away.

Rosalie's eyes flew up to meet his and a light came over her face he almost could not endure. It lent a sweetness to her face that made him feel like the devil for all he put her through.

"No need," she replied quietly, taking care not to disturb Seth. "I will claim him as mine. It is my right, after all."

Guy's eyes clouded at the thought. It was one thing to declare Seth as his illegitimate child and see to his upbringing, but to for Rosalie to claim Annie's child as her own… That would give Seth the right to inherit everything, even Rosalie's holdings. Yes, it was Rosalie's right to do so: she was legally Seth's mother upon their marriage, but it rankled Guy to see Rosalie give her future up to make peace with his past.

"What about our children?" he asked gently. He took care not to shatter her happiness; he had done that enough to last a lifetime and he knew that he was no where near finished.

"God willing, they will not war amongst each other as we do," Rosalie spoke to herself and to her precious God, rather than to her husband. Guy knew she did not understand what he meant, but he did not press it.

Poor Rosalie was now forever caught in the tempests of his life and he would not steal her innocence away with the coldness of reality. He would not give her a reason to grieve today.


	25. A Child Shall Lead Them

Chapter Twenty-Four

A Child Shall Lead Them

The north east wind had a chill, promising a frost to follow as fog spread across the wold, hiding the outlaws as they crept into Locksley. The sun was setting in the west, denying them his warmth as twilight lent its cloak. Witching hour was a time when men's eyes could not be sure whether or not they saw a shadow or a man.

Allan sulked at being sent on this fool's errand while Much could scarcely bite back his indignation at Gisborne's new stance on public welfare. A'Dale had listened to Much's tirades about Gisborne's past cruelties and heinous crimes which would not be white-washed out with a little help with the harvest. -How many innocent people had starved to death because Gisborne had burnt them out of their homes and seized what little they had? How many fathers and sons had died in Gisborne's mines or at the point of his sword if they resisted?

"And Lady Marian!"

"Be quiet, Much!" Allan hissed. There were many things he could endure to listen to, but to be reminded of Marian caused an ache in his belly tonight. He often wondered if Marian might still be alive if he had never betrayed Robin to Guy. Perhaps she would have been in less danger, perhaps she would never have been exposed if it had not been for him. It was certainly his fault that the sheriff learned she was the Nightwatchman.

Guards patrolled the grounds, but their patterns were predictable: Allan knew exactly what time Gisborne would set and smiled when he was right. He left Much waiting in the hedge, while he creeped up to the casement.

Mary passed by the open window and he ducked, hiding in the shadows, then listened to the sound of footsteps retreating, followed by the sound of a woman... singing?

Allan stilled his breath and listened carefully as the lullaby grew more distinct. It was one he had never heard before, but the voice was sweet and trained. He guessed it was Rosalie and the song came from the south, but why would she be singing in the manor hall? Certainly not to entertain Gisborne.

_My bonny prince has sailed away_

_And left me standing on the bay._

_But here I'll stay till break of day_

_Singing lu-la-lu. _

Finally, he summoned the gumption to peak through the lattice and saw Lady Gisborne. Her back was turned to the window and all he could see was her hair and her gown. He had never seen her without her hair pleated and thought that it suited her better to let her tresses fall loosely: she looked less like a noble and more like a maid. Allan's eyes went wide when Rosalie turned as though in a dance and he saw the child balanced on her hip. It looked like a boy, though he could never tell the difference until they were old enough to be breeched or left in dresses, but it was about two or three years of age with thick dark curls and bright blue eyes.

The child rested its head upon Rosalie's shoulder as a chubby fist gripped her hair, but did not pull. Allan could have sworn he had seen the child before. Rosalie continued in her song.

_My bonny prince is far away_

_And night is cold here on the bay._

_But here I'll stay till break of day_

_Singing lu-la-lu. _

The sound of Gisborne's heavy stride was scarcely hear before he appeared, blackening the heavenly sight of woman and child with his dark brow.

"Mary, come take the boy to the nursery," Gisborne ordered, his voice betraying only the slightest hint of annoyance. He had not set eyes on the child once since he entered the room.

"There is no need," said Rosalie softly, "I will see to him."

"No," Guy interjected, "you will sit down and sup with your lord."

Rosalie frowned, but made no move to protest. Allan hid himself as best he could while still keeping her within his sight. He watched a white hand rub soothing circles upon the boy's back as her face turned to kiss his black hair.

The boy pulled back and put two plump hands with stubby fingers splayed upon each of Rosalie's white cheeks causing her to give him a wide and shining smile. No one in Nottingham had ever seen Rosalie smile and Allan knew it was a mercy that Robin was not witness to it. Allan could scarcely train his own heart not to grow warm.

"Mamma!" babbled the child as he dove down and smacked his open mouth upon Rosalie's in a wet kiss that made her laugh and turn, her skirts rising.

"Goodnight, little love," she cooed, pressing the child in her arms. "Angels watch over you, sweet one."

Out of the corner of his eye, Allan saw Guy glower as he threw back a large gulp from his tankard.

With many reluctant kisses and coos, the child was surrendered to the care of the maid and the lady turned to join the lord at his table.

"Is the meal to your liking?" Rosalie inquired, breaking the silence.

Guy did not look up from his boar stew. (Allan knew the dish well and his mouth watered at the scent of it.)

"It will suffice," the black knight replied. "We will have a visitor on the morrow. Will the house be prepared?"

Allan smirked when he saw the corner of Rosalie's mouth twitch in offense.

"The household is always in order," she answered. "Will the guest break fast with us?"

"Marry, I hope not," Guy groaned. "The sheriff is coming. It is my hope that he will not stay above an hour, but there is no telling."

"You will want me well out of your way," Rosalie juxtaposed.

"No, I will want you to at my side looking every bit a cousin of Prince John," he answered.

Rosalie nodded. "Plantagenet colours would be best," she said. "I have a blue gown that will suit. -I can make alterations to your wine-coloured doublet tonight."

Guy looked at her profile with a small smirk, then frowned and sat back in his chair. He seemed ill at ease, as though he were weighing words that had a foul taste upon his tongue.

"Seth should also be present to greet the sheriff," he said slowly, causing Rosalie to look up. "He is my legitimate heir: he is proof that my line is secure and that will rankle Vasey."

Seth! The name resounded through Allan's mind and he recalled where he had seen the child before. It was Annie's son, Guy's bastard. -Even when Allan served under Guy, the black knight never made mention of the child. When had he become Gisborne's heir? Had he done this because of Rosalie's miscarriage?

Rosalie only bowed her head and, without her eyes on him, Guy turned to watch her face. Allan saw something he had not seen in Guy since Marian was alive: the storm receded in his eyes and he seemed... quiet and tired.

The shrill call of a badly mocked mockingbird echoed on the wind and Allan knew Much was signaling that it was time to return to camp. There would be no telling what Robin would do when he learned this.


	26. The Lord of Locksley

Chapter Twenty-Five

"The Lord of Locksley"

Robin's reaction to the news of Seth's presence and status at Locksley was not what Allan had expected. He sat beside silent John and stared at the flames of the camp fire. Much spoke first after Allan gave his report.

"Can you believe it?" he huffed, "Gisborne left that child in the woods alone. Any sort of wild animal or man" (he looked at John, then looked away when he caught the latter's hard stare) "could have gotten hold of him. -Now! Now he has the gall to take him from his mother and declare the boy his heir."

Tuck finally interjected once Much had slowed his rate to take in a breath.

"Gisborne has a son?" he asked in surprise.

Allan answered: "About two years ago, a kitchen girl at the castle, Annie, bore his son. He told her he was taking the lad to Kirklee's, but instead he left the boy in the woods. We found him. Marian..." Allan fell silent and deferred to Robin who still sat looking at the flames.

Tuck set his jaw, struggling to hide his annoyance at the fact every time Marian was brought up the camp fell silent and he was left with only half stories. No one spoke of her when Robin was within earshot, they barely spoke of her when Robin was not. He was the only man in camp who did not have a portion of his heart set aside for loving Marian. This would have meant nothing to him, if it did not so often muddle the task at hand.

"Marian found Annie and Seth a place to seek refuge," Robin said softly. He turned to Allan. "You said Rosalie is fond of the boy?"

"She is," Allan replied, forcing himself not to remember her smile for fear that Robin would read his thoughts and learn of it. There was no telling what Robin would do if he fell in love with Gisborne's wife.

"Then she will want the boy to be returned to his mother," he stated, pulling himself to his feet and wiping his damp hands on the seat of his breeches.

"Rob-" Allan began to protest, but fell silent. Robin was right: however happy Rosalie may be, Seth belonged with his mother. She was a good woman and she would understand that.

"John, Allan," Robin addressed in a tone that meant marching orders were soon to follow. "You go tonight and find Annie. Tell her she will have her son back by eventide tomorrow. Find a new place to hide her... Far away from Gisborne. I will talk to Rosalie in the morning and explain."

"Robin," Tuck had a warning in his voice.

"Tuck, you broke the sacrament of confession and betrayed her," Robin stated plainly. "Why would she trust you?"

"You tried to kill her husband," Tuck answered.

"And she knows why," he rejoined. "She will trust me."

Guy retired well after midnight, but rather than find Rosalie lying in his bed, he entered the room to see her sitting by the hearth, using the light from the fire to illuminate her stitches. His claret doublet covered her lap, looking like wine in the firelight which cast a becoming glow upon her pale face and put life into her hair. It was a pleasant change from the wan Rosalie he had known during the first month in the shire.

She scarcely looked up when he entered and he turned to close the door without ceremony.

"It is late," he observed casually as he worked at the laces of his brown doublet, revealing a little more of his white shirt as they loosened. If he had looked in the glass, he would have surprised at the man he found there. This man looked like a nobleman, not a master at arms. He looked like a man of reason, not of violence. It was little marvel the serfs no longer ran away at the sight of him when he did not come before looking prepared for battle.

"I am almost finished," Rosalie said. "The collar and cuffs are meant to be removable so the stitches a few. Please, wear this gently or you will tear the trimmings. It took me month to embroider it."

Guy caught the look in her eye: a look of self-reproach, self-mockery. It was very different from the Rosalie he had painted in his mind, the timid and saintly Rosalie. He thought her too naive to see how pointless her woman's work actually was.

"I fear your toils are wasted upon me," he sighed, drawing near to see her handiwork. As always, it was done with care a precision, being neither gaudy, nor cheap. The gold silk had been embroidered with light green ivy that looked so fine he would have thought it had been painted.

"It was not made for you," she replied softly and Guy thought he heard the slightest catch in her voice. The tightness of her mouth stood as testament to his accuracy.

He bit back ire. Rosalie's days were spent with Seth's coos and smiles, but her nights were passed with his groans and frowns. Most nights, he scarcely noticed her manner of speech, but there was a definite change in that statement. He wondered what it boded, but not enough to make enquiries.

Guy stood in his shirt and breeches, waiting for Rosalie to be abed, where she could hide her eyes from him. He thought he could endure her presence much better if she were always embroidering and keeping those eyes of hers averted. Then she looked up and him and he thought it was not so bad, not when she gave him a wan smile that made him almost believe she enjoyed his presence.

He swallowed hard: she was a good woman, she deserved better than she had been given, but he had nothing more he could give her.

Rosalie folded the doublet neatly and set it upon the trunk, then frowned in annoyance.

In response to her husband's puzzled look she said, "I told Mary she could retire an hour ago. -Would you... Could you leave the room, please? Just for a moment while I... undress? Please, my lord?"

Guy frowned, but almost granted her request when he recalled that she had sent her maid to bed and knew Rosalie would never have the girl roused.

"And how do you intend to manage your stays, woman?" he asked gruffly.

Rosalie's brow arched and her head cocked, betraying that she had not considered that.

"Turn around," he instructed. "I may know little in regards to ladies' dress, but I think I can manage to untie laces."

Rosalie hesitated and Guy understood, but gave her no reassurance. She would learn soon enough that he had no desire for her, there was no point in giving voice to the words. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her in a manner that was neither gentle nor unkind.

When her back was turned to him, Guy met an obstacle he had not wagered upon: the veil of hair that fell over her shoulders and down her back, blocking his way. He reached up to her neck pulled his hand across, in much the same way as he would cut her throat, bringing her hair over to her shoulder. As it moved, the scent of rosewater drifted from amidst the tresses and he felt her shiver slightly as his fingertips dragged across her white neck.

He made moderate work of the laces: he thought if he moved too quickly, he would give her a fright, and moving too slowly was far too akin to love-making for his taste. When the fabric of her gown moved, he smelled the lavender she kept in the trunks to keep their clothing fresh and wondered why it was so cursed imperative for a woman to smell like a blooming garden, but the scent eased the knot in his chest.

Guy turned away so that she could remove her gown with some modicum of privacy and waited until he heard her climb into bed before he dared look her way again. She pulled the blankets up over her shoulders and had her back to him so that he could undress. As always, the dutiful wife turned and welcomed her husband to the marriage bed with open arms, but tonight Guy thought he saw a gleam of trepidation.

It filled him with ire to know that Rosalie feared the night he would reclaim his husbandly rights, but the fact was he had no reason to do so. Seth was his heir, he need not subject Rosalie to the discomfort of lying with him, nor subject himself to the sin that lay in bedding God's daughter. If he could love her as a husband should, it would be different, but he did not. He never could.

Nonetheless, Guy slept peacefully in Rosalie's sweet embrace, breathing in the damn lavender she had stuffed the pillows with and catching the faintest hint of rosewater from her hair.

Robin lay on the damp forest floor, watching the waxing moon through the trees that rose above him. He tuned out the sound of Much and Tuck snoring (it pleased him to know the priest was not perfect) by listening to the sound of the wind moving through the thrush. When he was a boy, he used to sneak out of the manor and sleep in the meadow with the moon and stars for his ceiling and walls. Now, he wanted nothing more than to be able to walk into his house, climb his stairs, and crawl into his bed like a child.

He clenched his fists when he thought of Gisborne lying in the bed he had been born in with his innocent bride at his side. His stomach turned as he thought of Gisborne raising a family in Robin's ancestral home. He bit back bile at the thought of Rosalie round with child, rushing about to obey her husband's every command. Heat flooded his cheeks when he thought of Gisborne bringing Seth up: the baby Robin held and comforted, the child Gisborne himself had tried to kill, to throw out like an unwanted cat.

One day, Robin vowed, when the king returned, he would be restored to Locksley and he would make things right. He would requite the serfs. He would have Annie and her son brought to the manor to work, so that Rosalie could still see the boy she had come to love.

Rosalie... She deserved more than she had been given in this life. Robin wondered if he was the only man in the world who cared about her fate. It was a hard world and Robin knew that he could spend a lifetime trying to make it up to her. Marian made choices for her own life, but Rosalie lacked that freedom. Marian's mind was her own, Rosalie's had been carefully manipulated and sculpted from her childhood.

At last, Robin fell asleep, cradled in the chilly arms of the night, breathing in the scent of the dew-wet earth and the smell of trees.


	27. Heaven and Hell

Chapter Twenty-Six

"Heaven and Hell"

Rosalie's tired eyes welcomed the pale light of early morning wearily. This was the hour her lord was wont to rise and bring an end to her prayerful watch, but he had not stirred within her heavy arms.

_Sweet Jesu, be his help. Send your angels to guard his dreams. Drive back the devils that plague him. _

The prayers continued; half screamed within her mind, half murmured upon her lips. Guy's breath continued to whisper across the plains of her skin in the same rhythm, never quickening nor strengthening, meaning that he was still lost to the waking world. His wife had not slept that night and her eyes burned. More than once had she shed a weary tear and fought the urge to claim sleep for herself and abandon him to his dreams. Once she had nodded and she felt him shudder within her arms, causing her to waken and pray for his lost soul.

_Save his immortal soul, Gentle God. Change his heart. _

"Change his heart, dear God," she whispered, turning her head to rest her cheek upon his crown.

Guy stirred and Rosalie closed her eyes, thinking he would awaken and knowing he would not want her eyes upon him when he was at his weakest. It was their unspoken routine: he would stir, she would close her eyes, he would leave, and she would sleep until Seth called for her. Rosalie waited to feel the cool air of the morning as his weight lifted from her breast, but it never came. Instead, Rosalie felt a belt of warmth upon her belly and side, like a strange river of mulled wine had been mapped across her body, and the larger warmth beside her came nearer.

She opened her eyes tentatively and saw that Guy had wrapped his arm around her waist. Her son did the same with his pillow when he slept in his crib and Rosalie supposed this was no different, but her husband had never put his arms around her, not even when he tupped her. Rosalie could see Seth in Guy's face and was surprised to find so many of the things she cherished in her child to be etched upon her man. Her man... Guy was certainly not hers. He was not anyone's. But she was his and she was all he had.

Rosalie ached for the dawn and for Seth, but betimes she would not let Guy be disturbed. In this hour, his arm was around her waist and she knew she may never know that feeling again until her son was old enough to cherish his mother.

* * *

"Mamma! Mamma!"

Guy started awake as his vision slowly cleared away the indistinct shades and revealed the light and dark of his lady. Again, the high voice called, followed by tapping upon the chamber door; Guy groaned. The crisp air of the room hit his bare skin as he felt the weight of Rosalie's arms slip away from his back, then felt her hands at his shoulders, pushing gently.

He looked down at her, confounded, when he saw that his arm was draped across her belly, pinning her to the bed. She was looking anxiously towards the door where Seth was eagerly begging admittance.

Guy rolled onto his back, taking his arm with him. As Rosalie hurried to pull her dressing gown over her shift and Seth continued to call out for her, Guy wished he had kept Rosalie in his bed so that his son would to learn to wait his turn. It could not bode well that the brat should think he took precedence over his father.

He turned Rosalie and opened his mouth to make the gruff command that she rejoin him, but when he looked at her, standing in the window with the pale sunlight painting her dark hair in a halo and her eyes alight to hear her son's voice, his throat suddenly felt full of chalk. Rosalie opened the door and, with a squeal from both of them, Seth was in her arms.

Guy thought he beheld the Madonna and child as he watched the woman he still considered a maid press the boy in her arms and fervently kiss his dark curls. Rosalie looked like a girl when Seth made her smile; the child's innocence had increased her own tenfold. He felt guilty watching them, for their beauty was not lost upon him, and he did not deserve to bear witness to it.

Rosalie carried Seth back to the nursery to be dressed, but the sunlight remained in the chamber, empty now upon the lifeless furniture and the soulless man. Guy stumbled to the chamber pot and retched. Heaven, he thought, was infinitely worse than hell, because he knew he could never hold onto it. He knew he would destroy them and they did not deserve to be destroyed.


	28. Domestic Law

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Domestic Law "

Robin sat comfortably upon the beam that ran along the outer wall of the manor, beneath the casement of his boyhood nursery. It faced the south where the sun would shine straight upon him, but he cared not: Rosalie and Gisborne were within and anyone in the village who had neither land nor means kept their heads down when they were within sight of the manor house.

As it happened, today, his mind was not occupied with his own survival. (Of course, Much would quickly state that today was like no other day in Robin's life.) Today, Robin was listening to a clear voice coo and sing as a babe laughed and squealed in reply. He did not need to look in the casement to see what went on within. Rosalie's image was burned upon his mind and he could well envision the boy held in her white arms.

"A' brought the gowns, m'lady," said a voice as steps echoed upon the floorboards. "But, mistress, don't ye think it rather cheeky? Puttin' the lad in Master Robin's gowns?"

"If Hood wants to wear his old baby clothes, he can come and claim them whenever he wishes, Mary," replied a clear voice crossly, "Go and fetch Bess, there is something I wish to say to you both."

"Yes m'lady."

Robin listened to the retreating footsteps with piqued curiosity and a lingering smirk at Rosalie's quip about his baby-clothes. That was just something Marian would have...

"Lady wife," called Gisborne's low voice.

The hairs on Robin's neck stood and he knew it was time he moved. He did not want to risk Gisborne barking orders from the window and revealing his hiding place to the hired soldiers below.

* * *

Guy stopped at the doorway of the nursery and watched his lady fuss with the billowing gown that adorned his son.

"Why do women insist upon dressing all babies like girls?" he queried.

"Because it is easier to change their napkins, my lord," she replied, not looking up from her task. "Baby boys kick their legs so incessantly that it is difficult enough to change them. -But Seth will be old enough to be breeched in the Spring, I think."

"I marvel that a woman as young as you should know so much about child-rearing," he remarked, still refusing to enter the nursery.

"There were a great deal of orphans at Saint Anne's," Rosalie explained. "I love to care for children."

Guy frowned; he knew good and well how much she loved children, even her cruel husband's bastard. He wondered if he had sired other children whose mothers had hidden them from him. Would Rosalie wish to adopt all of them as well? Very likely.

Rosalie had taken one of her own ivory combs and was carefully smoothing Seth's dark curls as the boy stared up at the man in the threshold. Seth's gaze was even more unsettling than Rosalie's. It was as though the boy knew what his father had done to him and to his mother.

"What is your will, my lord?" asked Rosalie, scarcely looking up from her task.

Guy cleared his throat and arched his brow a little when Rosalie suddenly stopped as though she realized some error upon her part, then stood with her hands folded before her as a good wife ought before her husband. This woman was descended from kings, yet there she stood before an upstart knight with an air of complete obedience. Marian was of lesser birth than Rosalie and she would have died before giving a hint of submission to any man. Guy had never even seen her submit to her father.

Guy hated himself for thinking of Rosalie as the better wife. He hated himself for thinking of Rosalie as his wife at all, and he chagrined himself for conjuring up Marian's image in his mind.

Rosalie waited patiently and Guy had to take a moment to recall why he had come. The sight of her in her shift and dressing gown refreshed his memory and he said, "Leave the boy to the maids and tend to your own dress. The sheriff will be here soon."

"As you wish, my lord," she replied obsequiously.

The two maids (Guy could never recall their names beyond the memory that they were as plain as the girls themselves) appeared in the corridor and stood quivering like frightened mice.

"Come here, girls," Rosalie said, ignoring their pale faces. To Guy she said, "I will only be a moment, my lord."

Guy acknowledge her with a single nod and stepped back to allow the maids to enter the nursery. He was half-tempted to snap his teeth at one of them, just to see them dance with fright like hens, but thought better of it.

He turned and to walk back to the master's chamber when he heard Rosalie instruct one of them to close the door. He opened and closed the door to his chamber, then tread softly back to the nursery.

"Are you not well cared for?" Rosalie's normally gentle voice seemed to shake with emotion, but it was not arched with anger. "Are you not well treated? Has my husband taken advantage of your presence in this house?"

There was no response.

"Since my coming here, I have done my utmost to see you and your families well fed and have forgiven mistakes that many mistresses would have beaten you for. I know that my husband has hard ways, but I also know lords who would use helpless girls like you very badly... Yet you persist in stubborn rebellion to his rule over this vassal. Robin Hood is an outlaw: he is no longer the Lord of Locksley. Locksley and everything in it belongs to Sir Guy: this is the law and unless you wish to find yourselves exiled from this estate, I do not want to hear Robin Hood's name spoken again."

"Yes, mistress," echoed a timid chorus.

"Bess, see to Master Seth. Mary, come help me dress," rang Rosalie's unnaturally cool voice, as steps drew closer to the door.

Most men would retreat in shame at having spied on their wives, but Guy held his ground. He wanted Rosalie to know she could keep no secrets from him, that she could never hide. The door opened and Rosalie stepped back in surprise at finding him in the hallway. She gave him one of her almost-smiles and he saw the glint of irony in her eyes. She knew she had passed his test.

"My lord," she said evenly, giving a slight curtsey in recognition of his status and her own.

"My lady," he replied with a nod. It was the only thanks she would receive for defending his honour.

Guy watched as Rosalie floated into their bedchamber with the timid maid skittering behind her like a frightened mouse.

Perhaps, he thought, he should thank Prince John for his bride after all.


	29. The King's Cousins

The King's Cousins

"To hell with Vasey," Guy thought as he stood in the threshold of Locksley Manor. To his left and right stood Gisborne's own soldiers and a few liveried footmen (in Plantagenet colors), all waiting for the sheriff's arrival. The sun had disappeared behind a thin haze of clouds, turning its face away from the evils of the world it circled. Guy almost smirked: God had turned His back on this accursed country, but Guy would never say so to Rosalie.

His lady wife had not yet come down from dressing and he nearly turned to bellow for her, when he heard the rustle of her gown as she took her place beside him. Guy breathed heavily in annoyance and was instantly assaulted with the scent of lavender and rosewater. Damn woman...

He turned to chide her for tardiness, but stopped at the sight of her. To his recollection, Rosalie had only worn a veil twice: once on their wedding day and again when she came with Prince John to the training grounds. Today, however, she wore a wimple and a veil. Since their coming to Locksley, he had become accustomed to her dark hair falling over her shoulders. A part of him was irked that she did not look like herself.

"The doublet suits you, my lord," she said gently.

"You look like a nun," was his best reply.

"I nearly became one."

Out of the corner of his eye, Guy caught one of her almost smiles. When she turned gave a broad and happy grin to Seth, who was fussing with the maid that held him, Guy thought he may very well retch again.

A trumpet sound heralded the first sight of the sheriff's retinue. Guy tasted bile. Beside him, Rosalie's spine stiffened. At least he was not entirely alone in his feelings for the sheriff. He felt the brush of her hand against the back of his. It was brief and she pulled away with a start, indicating that the touch had been unintentional. He swallowed hard: he was too accustomed to people shrinking away from him.

The sheriff sat handsomely in his saddle as he rode straight to the manor, giving only a passing notice to the serfs who had come out to witness his arrival. Guy never understood why Vasey bothered with the pretense of acknowledging the peasants. Every man in the shire knew full well where things stood between them and the sheriff... Even Guy.

The sheriff alighted as the servants bowed low and Lord and Lady Locksley gave courteous nods, that never once demeaned their superior status as relatives to Prince John. Guy could tell it rankled Vasey and this gave him cause to smirk.

"Lord Sheriff," Guy cleared his throat as he spoke, lending more self-importance to his posture than necessary, relishing this moment. "Welcome to Locksley."

"It is always a joy to see you, Sir Guy," Vasey lied as he dismounted, "and you, Lady Rosalie. I am almost sorry, m'lady, that we can't have another of our little chats."

Guy could almost feel Rosalie's skin crawl as Vasey leered at her and, instinctively, he angled himself so that he stood between them. His head was swimming with memories of the sheriff taunting Marian, Guy would not let him touch Rosalie.

"To what do we owe this honour?" Guy's voice was thick and mildly warning.

"Come now, Guy, I've ridden all this way, is it too much to ask for something to drink and a little friendly discourse?" Vasey was grinning too much like a lion after his lunch. Guy rallied his every wit and put up strong defenses: he would need them.

"Bring the sheriff some wine," Rosalie instructed Thornton.

Guy was uncertain about the cool, even tone in her voice. It was unreadable and impregnable, reminding him that she was, after all, a bloody Angevin. John masked his games with a smile, Rosalie took after Richard and put on a simple mask: neither jovial, nor unpleasant. Calm, even, and perfectly diplomatic. However, Guy could see one thing in the glint of her dark eyes: she would not let Vasey under her roof.

While Thornton went to do his lady's bidding, Guy watched as Vasey took in the welcoming party, all dressed in Plantagenet retinue. It had the desired effect upon Vasey and Guy was pleased.

"What's this?" Vasey remarked, his eyes falling on Seth. "Don't tell me you have sprouted a family already, Gisborne."

"Sheriff," Guy nearly smiled. "This is my son and heir, Seth of Gisborne."

Vasey instantly turned to Rosalie, whom he knew, had not birthed the boy.

"Seth... Seth..." the sheriff turned the name over in his head until the memory struck him. "So, Gisborne, the kitchen whore's bastard found his way back home. My poor lady, how embarrassing for you."

Guy saw a flame in Rosalie's eyes akin to the one he had seen the instant before she slapped him for Seth's sake. He wondered briefly how much of a temper his milk-soft wife actually had.

"Seth is our legitimate heir," she stated. "I have claimed him as my son."

"So..." Vasey stepped near Rosalie and lowered his voice so that the only other person who could hear was Guy. "The rumors are true... Lady Gisborne is barren."

Guy watched Rosalie fight not to betray her feelings. A barren women was worthless, even one who came with as large a dowry as Rosalie Anjou. What good would her fortune be to any man if he could not pass his legacy down to future generations? But Guy knew Rosalie was not barren: she had conceived his child and Guy had killed it and nearly killed her in the process.

"I would not be so quick to believe rumors if I were you," Guy replied, wedging himself further between his lady and the sheriff. "This harsh country is no place for a _lady_ like Rosalie, but when Prince John recalls us to London, I am confident she will fair better in the milder climb."

Vasey chuckled, but Guy knew it was a ruse.

"Speaking of your return to court," he sneered, "have you come any closer to capturing Hood?"

"I have made progress," Guy answered and, for once, he felt a glimmer of confidence. With the neighboring serfs indebted to Gisborne, Hood was running out of places to take refuge and Guy was finding himself not nearly as stone-walled by the peasants as he had been a year ago. "Speaking of Prince John, have you managed to collect your tribute?"

"Which brings me to why I have come," Vasey was grinning now. Thornton had returned with the wine, which the sheriff took jovially. When Vasey held his head that high, it meant trouble. "I don't suppose you could call the unwashed together?"

Guy rolled his eyes, but nodded to his soldiers to have it done, and three men went out into the village to call the serfs away from their labor and business to hear what the sheriff decreed. For a moment, he caught Rosalie's eye: for the first time in their marriage, they met on common ground with the same intention. Both were wary and both were frightened of their shared enemy.

Once the crowd had gathered, the sheriff took to his arena like a skilled actor playing his role. If this were a miracle play, Guy did not doubt that Vasey would play the role of Satan. But who would Guy play? Judas Iscariot? -What further damnation would Judas earn from bedding the Madonna as Guy had bedded Rosalie?

When Guy saw that his lady had followed him to hear the sheriff, he offered his hand to escort her. It would not do for him to be seen slighting Prince John's cousin, nor would it do to allow Vasey even the slightest reason to believe the Gisbornes were anything but united. He had already failed in his attempt to turn Rosalie against her lord. It would, however, be in Guy's interest if the sheriff targeted his wife as his Achilles Heal. Rosalie would make a poor bargaining chip for Vasey: she was easily sacrificed.

Guy set his teeth as Marian's face resurrected in his memory; looking up at him, sorrowful and disillusioned. He felt the grip in his hand tighten gently then release, and he saw Rosalie's dark, gentle eyes. She had brought him back from the deep.

On impulse, her hand came to his lips. Guy told himself it was to further the ruse for Vasey, but his heart beat faster when she looked up at him. Her eyes softened and her face coloured. For a moment, a part of him wanted to kiss her brow, letting her feel safe. He had forgotten about that part: he had felt it so often with Marian. It was the hero in him, the man who wanted to be better than he was, but Guy was a year older and a year wiser: he knew better than to try.

"Good people of Locksley," the sheriff voice, breaking Guy from his thoughts. He felt the serfs turn their eyes upon him, wondering how he had betrayed them this time.

"As you all know, our King, Richard the Lionheart, is being held for ransom be the Emperor Leopold of Austria... In order to raise the money for his release and safe return home, the Bishop of ... has decreed that, as the king is anointed by God, it falls to the faithful of England to give their aid. Therefore, with the Bishop's blessing, I am hear to announce a new tax. For any man, woman, or child who dies, the family must pay ten gold pieces for the departed to be buried on Holy ground."

There was an instant buzz amongst the peasants. No one could afford such an expense, but to be denied Christian burial meant eternal damnation. Rosalie's grip on Guy's hand tightened and he guessed her intention quickly. She was right, this was his chance to cement his relationship with the serfs of Locksley.

"People of Locksley," Guy said, stepping forward, holding Rosalie's hand at his rib-cage so that all could see how he revered their beloved lady, the King's cousin, "the King is my lady wife's blood cousin and mine by law. No one desires his safe return more than I, except perhaps my lady. Those of us who are loyal, cannot dispute a tax intended to ensure that."

The moans increased as the serfs perceived that Guy had once again thrown his lot in with Vasey. How could they believe he would do anything else."

"For that reason," Guy gave more weight to his voice to silence the crowd, "I wish to assure each other you, that I will personally pay the tax for those who live and work on these lands. For those who live in other villages, I will pay their tax, provided they agree to work on Locksley lands during planting and harvest, until their debt is paid. I will charge no interest."

Instantly, the crowd broke into applause and cheers. One man shouted out, "God save you, my lord!" another called, "And God save your lady."

"God save the King!" Guy shouted back.

"And God save Prince John!"

Guy turned with a start to his wife. He knew there was no love lost between the cousins. John frightened Rosalie more than Vasey did, but the look in her eyes was unmistakable and pointed: Rosalie the politician was making sure their heads did not mount pikes in London.

"God save Prince John!" he echoed.

When he turned to look at Vasey, Guy smiled all the more.

The sheriff was choking on his tongue.


End file.
